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

Rolf's Information Was Complete Now,  And All That Remained Was To

Report At Plattsburg. Ten Regiments He Had Counted From His Peep

Hole. The Rear Guard Passed At Ten O'clock. At Eleven Mrs.

Hubbell Did A Little Scouting And Reported That All Was Quiet As

Far As She Could See Both Ways,  And No Enemy In Sight Anywhere.

With A Grateful Hand Shake He Left The House To Cover The

Fourteen Miles That Lay Between Chazy And Plattsburg.

Refreshed And Fed,  Young And Strong,  The Representative Of A Just

And Victorious Cause,  How He Exulted In That Run,  Rejoicing In

His Youth,  His Country,  His Strength,  His Legs,  His Fame As A

Runner. Starting At A Stride He Soon Was Trotting; Then,  When The

Noon Hour Came,  He Had Covered A Good Six Miles. Now He Heard

Faint,  Far Shots,  And Going More Slowly Was Soon Conscious That A

Running Fight Was On Between His Own People And The Body Of

British Sent Westward To Hold The Upper Saranac.

True To The Instinct Of The Scout,  His First Business Was To Find

Out Exactly What And Where They Were. From A Thick Tree Top He

Saw The Red-Coats Spotting An Opening Of The Distant Country.

Then They Were Lost Sight Of In The Woods. The Desultory Firing

Became Volley Firing,  Once Or Twice. Then There Was An Interval

Of Silence. At Length A Mass Of Red-Coats Appeared On The Highway

Within Half A Mile. They Were Travelling Very Fast,  In Full

Retreat,  And Were Coming His Way. On The Crest Of The Hill Over

Which The Road Ran,  Rolf Saw Them Suddenly Drop To The Ground And

Take Up Position To Form A Most Dangerous Ambuscade,  And Half A

Mile Away,  Straggling Through The Woods,  Running Or Striding,

Were The Men In The Colours He Loved. They Had Swept The Enemy

Before Them,  So Far,  But Trained Troops Speedily Recover From A

Panic,  If They Have A Leader Of Nerve,  And Seeing A Noble Chance

In The Angle Of This Deep-Sunk Road,  The British Fugitives Turned

Like Boars At Bay. Not A Sign Of Them Was Visible To The

Americans. The Latter Were Suffering From Too Much Success. Their

Usual Caution Seemed To Have Deserted Them,  And Trotting In A

Body They Came Along The Narrow Road,  Hemmed In By A Forest And

Soon To Be Hedged With Cliffs Of Clay. They Were Heading For A

Death-Trap. At Any Price He Must Warn Them. He Slid Down The

Tree,  And Keeping Cover Ran As Fast As Possible Toward The

Ambush. It Was The Only Hill Near -- Beekman's Rise,  They Call

It. As Far As Possible From The Red-Coats,  But Still On The Hill

That Gave A View,  He Leaped On To A High Stump And Yelled As He

Never Did Before: "Go Back,  Go Back! A Trap! A Trap!" And Lifting

High His Outspread Hands He Flung Their Palms Toward His Friends,

The Old-Time Signal For "Go Back."

Not Twice Did They Need Warning. Like Hunted Wolves They Flashed

From View In The Nearest Cover. A Harmless Volley From The

Baffled Ambush Rattled Amongst Them,  And Leaping From His Stump

Rolf Ran For Life.

Furious At Their Failure,  A Score Of Red-Coats,  Reloading As They

Ran,  Came Hot-Footed After Him. Down Into Cover Of An Alder Swamp

He Plunged,  And Confident Of His Speed,  Ran On,  Dashing Through

Thickets And Mudholes. He Knew That The Red- Coats Would Not

Follow Far In Such A Place,  And His Comrades Were Near. But The

Alder Thicket Ended At A Field. He Heard The Bushes Crashing

Close At Hand,  And Dashed Down A Little Ravine At Whose Lower

Edge The Friendly Forest Recommenced. That Was His Fatal Mistake.

The Moment He Took To The Open There Was A Rattle Of Rifles From

The Hill Above,  And Rolf Fell On His Face As Dead.

It Was After Noontide When He Fell; He Must Have Lain Unconscious

For An Hour; When He Came To Himself He Was Lying Still In That

Hollow,  Absolutely Alone. The Red-Coats Doubtless Had Continued

Their Flight With The Yankee Boys Behind Them. His Face Was

Covered With Blood. His Coat Was Torn And Bloody; His Trousers

Showed A Ragged Rent That Was Reddened And Sopping. His Head Was

Aching,  And In His Leg Was The Pain Of A Cripplement. He Knew It

As Soon As He Tried To Move; His Right Leg Was Shattered Below

The Knee. The Other Shots Had Grazed His Arm And Head; The Latter

Had Stunned Him For A Time,  But Did No Deeper Damage.

He Lay Still For A Long Time,  In Hopes That Some Of His Friends

Might Come. He Tried To Raise His Voice,  But Had No Strength.

Then He Remembered The Smoke Signal That Had Saved Him When He

Was Lost In The Woods. In Spite Of His Wounded Arm,  He Got Out

His Flint And Steel,  And Prepared To Make A Fire. But All The

Small Wood He Could Reach Was Wet With Recent Rains. An Old Pine

Stump Was On The Bank Not Far Away; He Might Cut Kindling-Wood

From That To Start His Fire,  And He Reached For His Knife. Alas!

Its Case Was Empty. Had Rolf Been Four Years Younger,  He Might

Have Broken Down And Wept At This. It Did Seem Such An

Unnecessary Accumulation Of Disasters. Without Gun Or Knife,  How

Was He To Call His Friends?

He Straightened His Mangled Limb In The Position Of Least Pain

And Lay For A While. The September Sun Fell On His Back And

Warmed Him. He Was Parched With Thirst,  But Only Thirty Yards

Away Was A Little Rill. With A Long And Fearful Crawling On His

Breast,  He Dragged Himself To The Stream And Drank Till He Could

Drink No More,  Then Rested,  Washed His Head And Hands,  'And Tried

To Crawl Again To The Warm Place. But The Sun Had Dropped Behind

The River Bank,  The Little Ravine Was In Shadow,  And The Chill Of

The Grave Was On The Young Man's Pain-Racked Frame.

Shadows Crossed His Brain,  Among Them Si Sylvanne With His Quaint

Sayings,  And One Above All Was Clear:

"Trouble Is Only Sent To Make Ye Do Yer Best. When Ye Hev Done

Yer Best,  Keep Calm And Wait. Things Is Comin' All Right." Yes,

That Was What He Said,  And The Mockery Of It Hurt Him Now.

The Sunset Slowly Ended; The Night Wind Blew; The Dragging Hours

Brought Gloom That Entered In. This Seemed Indeed The Direst

Strait Of His Lot. Crippled,  Dying Of Cold,  Helpless,  Nothing To

Do But Wait And Die,  And From His Groaning Lips There Came The

Half-Forgotten Prayer His Mother Taught Him Long Ago,  "O God,

Have Mercy On Me!" And Then He Forgot.

When He Awoke,  The Stars Were Shining; He Was Numb With Cold,  But

His Mind Was Clear.

"This Is War," He Thought,  "And God Knows We Never Sought It."

And Again The Thought: "When I Offered To Serve My Country,  I

Offered My Life. I Am Willing To Die,  But This Is Not A Way Of My

Choosing," And A Blessed,  Forgetfulness Came Upon Him Again.

But His Was A Stubborn-Fibred Race; His Spark Of Life Was Not So

Quickly Quenched; Its Blazing Torch Might Waver,  Wane,  And Wax

Again. In The Chill,  Dark Hour When The Life- Lamp Flickers Most,

He Wakened To Hear The Sweet,  Sweet Music Of A Dog's Loud Bark;

In A Minute He Heard It Nearer,  And Yet Again At Hand,  And

Skookum,  Erratic,  Unruly,  Faithful Skookum,  Was Bounding Around

And Barking Madly At The Calm,  Unblinking Stars.

A Human "Halloo" Rang Not Far Away; Then Others,  And Skookum

Barked And Barked.

Now The Bushes Rustled Near,  A Man Came Out,  Kneeled Down,  Laid

Hand On The Dying Soldier's Brow,  And His Heart. He Opened His

Eyes,  The Man Bent Over Him And Softly Said,  "Nibowaka! It's Quonab."

That Night When  The Victorious Rangers Had Returned To

Plattsburg It Was A Town Of Glad,  Thankful Hearts,  And Human Love

Ran Strong. The Thrilling Stories Of The Day Were Told,  The

Crucial Moment,  The Providential Way In Which At Every Hopeless

Pass,  Some Easy,  Natural Miracle Took Place To Fight Their Battle

And Back Their Country's Cause. The Harrying Of The Flying

Rear-Guard,  The Ambuscade Over The Hill,  The Appearance Of An

American Scout At The Nick Of Time To Warn Them -- The Shooting,

And His Disappearance -- All Were Discussed.

Then Rollicking Seymour And Silent Fiske Told Of Their Scouting

On The Trail Of The Beaten Foe; And All Asked,  "Where Is

Kittering?" So Talk Was Rife,  And There Was One Who Showed A

Knife He Had Picked Up Near The Ambuscade With R. K. On The

Shaft.

Now A Dark-Faced Scout Rose Up,  Stared At The Knife,  And Quickly

Left The Room. In Three Minutes He Stood Before General Macomb,

His Words Were Few,  But From His Heart:

"It Is My Boy,  Nibowaka; It Is Rolf; My Heart Tells Me. Let Me Go.

I Feel Him Praying For Me To Come. Let Me Go,  General. I Must Go."

It Takes A Great Man To Gauge The Heart Of A Man Who Seldom Speaks.

"You May Go,  But How Can You Find Him Tonight?"

"Ugh,  I Find Him," And The Indian Pointed To A Little,

Prick-Eared,  Yellow Cur That Sneaked At His Heels.

"Success To You; He Was One Of The Best We Had," Said The

General,  As The Indian Left,  Then Added: "Take A Couple Of Men

Along,  And,  Here,  Take This," And He Held Out A Flask.

Thus It Was That The Dawning Saw Rolf On A Stretcher Carried By

His Three Scouting Partners,  While Skookum Trotted Ahead,  Looking

This Way And That -- They Should Surely Not Be Ambushed This Time.

And Thus The Crowning Misfortune,  The Culminating Apes Of

Disaster -- The Loss Of His Knife -- The Thing Of All Others That

Roused In Rolf The Spirit Of Rebellion,  Was The Way Of Life,

His Dungeon's Key,  The Golden Chain That Haled Him From The Pit.

There Were Wagons And Buckboards To Be Had,  But The Road Was

Rough,  So The Three Changed Off As Litter-Bearers And Brought Him

To The Lake Where The Swift And Smooth Canoe Was Ready,  And Two

Hours Later They Carried Him Into The Hospital At Plattsburg.

The Leg Was Set At Once,  His Wounds Were Dressed,  He Was Warmed,

Cleaned,  And Fed; And When The Morning Sun Shone In The Room,  It

Was A Room Of Calm And Peace.

The General Came And Sat Beside Him For A Time,  And The Words He

Spoke Were Ample,  Joyful Compensation For His Wounds. Macdonough,

Too,  Passed Through The Ward,  And The Warm Vibrations Of His

Presence Drove Death From Many A Bed Whose Inmate's Force Ebbed

Low,  Whose Soul Was Walking On The Brink,  Was Near Surrender.

Rolf Did Not Fully Realize It Then,  But Long Afterward It Was

Clear That This Was The Meaning Of The Well-Worn Words,  "He

Filled Them With A New Spirit."

There Was Not A Man In The Town But Believed The War Was Over;

There Was Not A Man In The Town Who Doubted That His Country's

Cause Was Won.

Three Weeks Is A Long Time To A Youth Near Manhood,  But There Was

Much Of Joy To While Away The Hours. The Mothers Of The Town Came

And Read And Talked. There Was News From The Front. There Were

Victories On The High Seas. His Comrades Came To Sit Beside Him;

Seymour,  The Sprinter,  As Merry A Soul As Ever Hankered For The

Stage And The Red Cups Of Life; Fiske,  The Silent,  And Mcglassin,

Too,  With His Dry,  Humorous Talk; These Were The Bright And Funny

Hours. There Were Others. There Came A Bright-Checked Vermont

Mother Whose Three Sons Had Died In Service At Macdonough's Guns;

And She Told Of It In A Calm Voice,  As One Who Speaks Of Her

Proudest Honour. Yes,  She Rejoiced That God Had Given Her Three

Such Sons,  And Had Taken Again His Gifts In Such A Day Of Glory.

Had England's Rulers Only Known,  That This Was