Rolf In The Woods by Ernest Thompson Seton (most popular ebook readers .txt) 📖

The Latest Pattern.  "Only Twenty- Five Dollars."

Rolf Shook His Head; "Part Down,  And I'll Take The Rest In Fur

Next Spring." Rolf Was Sorely Tempted; However,  He Had An Early

Instilled Horror Of Debt.  He Steadfastly Said: "No." But Many

Times He Regretted It Afterward!  The Small Balance Remaining Was

Settled In Cash.

 

As They Were Arranging And Selecting,  They Heard A Most Hideous

Yelping Outdoors,  And A Minnute Later Skookum Limped In,  Crying

As If Half-Killed.  Quonab Was Out In A Moment.

 

"Did You Kick My Dog?"

 

The Brutal Loafer Changed Countenance As He Caught The Red Man's

Eye.  "Naw! Never Touched Him; Hurted Himself On That Rake."

 

It Was Obviously A Lie,  But Better To Let It Pass,  And Quonab

Came In Again.

 

Then The Rough Stranger Appeared At The Door And Growled: "Say,

Warren! Ain't You Going To Let Me Have That Rifle?  I Guess My

Word's As Good As The Next Man's."

 

"No," Said Warren; "I Told You,  No!"

 

"Then You Can Go To Blazes,  And You'll Never See A Cent's Worth

Of Fur From The Stuff I Got Last Year."

 

"I Don't Expect To," Was The Reply; "I've Learned What Your

Word's Worth." And The Stranger Slouched Away.

 

"Who Vas He?" Asked Hendrik.

 

"I Only Know That His Name Is Jack Hoag; He's A Little Bit Of A

Trapper And A Big Bit Of A Bum; Stuck Me Last Year. He Doesn't

Come Out This Way; They Say He Goes Out By The West Side Of The

Mountains."

 

New Light On Their Course Was Secured From Warren,  And Above All,

The Important Information That The Mouth Of Jesup's River Was

Marked By An Eagle's Nest In A Dead Pine.  "Up To That Point Keep

The Main Stream,  And Don't Forget Next Spring I'm Buying Fur."

 

The Drive Across Five-Mile Portage Was Slow.  It Took Over Two

Hours To Cover It,  But Late That Day They Reached The Schroon.

 

Here The Dutchman Said "Good-Bye: Coom Again Some Noder Time."

Skookum Saluted The Farmer With A Final Growl,  Then Rolf And

Quonab Were Left Alone In The Wilderness.

 

It Was After Sundown,  So They Set About Camping For The Night.  A

Wise Camper Always Prepares Bed And Shelter In Daylight,  If

Possible.  While Rolf Made A Fire And Hung The Kettle,  Quonab

Selected A Level,  Dry Place Between Two Trees,  And Covered It

With Spruce Boughs To Make The Beds,  And Last A Low Tent Was Made

By Putting The Lodge Cover Over A Pole Between The Trees.  The

Ends Of The Covers Were Held Down By Loose Green Logs Quickly Cut

For The Purpose,  And Now They Were Safe Against Weather.

 

Tea,  Potatoes,  And Fried Pork,  With Maple Syrup And Hard-Tack,

Made Their Meal Of The Time,  After Which There Was A Long Smoke.

Quonab Took A Stick Of Red Willow,  Picked Up-In The Daytime,  And

Began Shaving It Toward One End,  Leaving The Curling Shreds Still

On The Stick.  When These Were Bunched In A Fuzzy Mop,  He Held

Them Over The Fire Until They Were Roasted Brown; Then,  Grinding

All Up In His Palm With Some Tobacco,  And Filling His Pipe He

Soon Was Enveloped In That Odour Of Woodsy Smoke Called The

"Indian Smell," By Many Who Do Not Know Whence Or How It Comes.

Rolf Did Not Smoke.  He Had Promised His Mother That He Would Not

Until He Was A Man,  And Something Brought Her Back Home Now With

Overwhehning Force; That Was The Beds They Had Made Of Fragrant

Balsam Boughs.  "Cho-Ko- Tung Or Blister Tree" As Quonab Called

It.  His Mother Had A Little Sofa Pillow,  Brought From The North

-- A "Northern Pine" Pillow They Called It,  For It Was Stuffed

With Pine Needles Of A Kind Not Growing In Connecticut.  Many A

Time Had Rolf As A Baby Pushed His Little Round Nose Into That

Bag To Inhale The Delicious Odour It Gave Forth,  And So It Became

The Hallowed Smell Of All That Was Dear In His Babyhood,  And It

Never Lost Its Potency.  Smell Never Does. Oh,  Mighty Aura! That,

In Marching By The Nostrils,  Can Reach And Move The Soul; How

Wise The Church That Makes This Power Its Handmaid,  And Through

Its Incense Overwhelms All Alien Thought When The Worshipper,

Wandering,  Doubting,  Comes Again To See If It Be True,  That Here

Doubt Dies.  Oh,  Queen Of Memory That Is Master Of The Soul! How

Fearful Should We Be Of Letting Evil Thought Associated Grow With

Some Recurrent Odour That We Love.  Happy,  Indeed,  Are They That

Find Some Ten Times Pure And Consecrated Fragrance,  Like The

Pine,  Which Entering In Is Master Of Their Moods,  And Yet Through

Linking Thoughts Has All Its Power,  Uplifting,  Full Of Sweetness

And Blessed Peace.  So Came To Rolf His Medicine Tree.

 

The Balsam Fir Was His Tree Of Hallowed Memory.  Its Odour Never

Failed,  And He Slept That Night With Its Influence All About Him.

 

Starting In The Morning Was No Easy Matter.  There Was So Much To

Be Adjusted That First Day.  Packs Divided In Two,  New

Combinations To Trim The Canoe,  Or To Raise Such And Such A

Package Above A Possible Leak.  The Heavy Things,  Like Axes And

Pans,  Had To Be Fastened To The Canoe Or To Packages That Would

Float In Case Of An Upset.  The Canoe Itself Had To Be Gummed In

One Or Two Places; But They Got Away After Three Hours,  And Began

The Voyage Down The Schroon.

 

This Was Rolf's First Water Journey.  He Had Indeed Essayed The

Canoe On The Pipestave Pond,  But That Was A Mere Ferry.  This Was

Real Travel.  He Marvelled At The Sensitiveness Of The Frail

Craft; The Delicacy Of Its Balance; Its Quick Response To The

Paddle; The Way It Seemed To Shrink From The Rocks; And The

Unpleasantly Suggestive Bend-Up Of The Ribs When The Bottom

Grounded Upon A Log. It Was A New World For Him.  Quonab Taught

Him Never To Enter The Canoe Except When She Was Afloat; Never To

Rise In Her Or Move Along Without Hold Of The Gunwale; Never To

Make A Sudden Move; And He Also Learned That It Was Easier To

Paddle When There Were Six Feet Of Water Underneath Than When

Only Six Inches.

 

In An Hour They Had Covered The Five Miles That Brought Them To

The Hudson,  And Here The Real Labour Began,  Paddling Up Stream.

Before Long They Came To A Shallow Stretch With Barely Enough

Water To Float The Canoe. Here They Jumped Out And Waded In The

Stream,  Occasionally Lifting A Stone To One Side,  Till They

Reached The Upper Stretch Of Deep Water And Again Went Merrily

Paddling. Soon They Came To An Impassable Rapid,  And Rolf Had His

First Taste Of A Real Carry Or Portage.  Quonab's Eye Was

Watching The Bank As Soon As The Fierce Waters Appeared; For The

First Question Was,  Where Shall We Land? And The Next,  How Far Do

We Carry?  There Are No Rapids On Important Rivers In Temperate

America That Have Not Been Portaged More Or Less For Ages.  No

Canoe Man Portages Without Considering Most Carefully When,

Where,  And How To Land.  His Selection Of The Place,  Then,  Is The

Result Of Careful Study.  He Cannot Help Leaving Some Mark At The

Place,  Slight Though It Be,  And The Next Man Looks For That Mark

To Save Himself Time And Trouble.

 

"Ugh" Was The Only Sound That Rolf Heard From His Companion,  And

The Canoe Headed For A Flat Rock In The Pool Below The Rapids.

After Landing,  They Found Traces Of An Old Camp Fire.  It Was

Near Noon Now,  So Rolf Prepared The Meal While Quonab Took A

Light Pack And Went On To Learn The Trail.  It Was Not Well

Marked; Had Not Been Used For A Year Or Two,  Evidently,  But There

Are Certain Rules That Guide One.  The Trail Keeps Near The

Water,  Unless There Is Some Great Natural Barrier,  And It Is

Usually The Easiest Way In Sight.  Quonab Kept One Eye On The

River,  For Navigable Water Was The Main Thing,  And In About One

Hundred Yards He Was Again On The Stream's Edge,  At A Good

Landing Above The Rapid.

 

After The Meal Was Finished And The Indian Had Smoked,  They Set

To Work.  In A Few Loads Each,  The Stuff Was Portaged Across,  And

The Canoe Was Carried Over And Moored To The Bank.

 

The Cargo Replaced,  They Went On Again,  But In Half An Hour After

Passing More Shoal Water,  Saw Another Rapid,  Not Steep,  But Too

Shallow To Float The Canoe,  Even With Both Men Wading.  Here

Quonab Made What The Frenchmen Call A Demi-Charge.  He Carried

Half The Stuff To The Bank; Then,  Wading,  One At Each End,  They

Hauled The Canoe Up The Portage And Reloaded Her Above.  Another

Strip Of Good Going Was Succeeded By A Long Stretch Of Very Swift

Water That Was Two Or Three Feet Deep And Between Shores That

Were Densely Grown With Alders.  The Indian Landed,  Cut Two

Light,  Strong Poles,  And Now,  One At The Bow,  The Other At The

Stern,  They Worked Their Way Foot By Foot Up The Fierce Current

Until Safely On The Upper Level.

 

Yet One More Style Of Canoe Propulsion Was Forced On Them.  They

Came To A Long Stretch Of Smooth,  Deep,  Very Swift Water,  Almost

A Rapid-One Of The Kind That Is A Joy When You Are Coming Down

Stream.  It Differed From The Last In Having Shores That Were Not

Alder-Hidden,  But Open Gravel Banks.  Now Did Quonab Take A Long,

Strong Line From His War Sack.  One End He Fastened,  Not To The

Bow,  But To The Forward Part Of The Canoe,  The Other To A

Buckskin Band Which He Put Across His Breast.  Then,  With Rolf In

The Stern To Steer And The Indian Hauling On The Bank,  The Canoe

Was Safely "Tracked" Up The "Strong Waters."

 

Thus They Fought Their Way Up The Hard River,  Day After Day,

Making Sometimes Only Five Miles After Twelve Hours' Toilsome

Travel.  Rapids,  Shoals,  Portages,  Strong Waters,  Abounded,  And

Before They Had Covered The Fifty Miles To The Forks Of Jesup's

River,  They Knew Right Well Why The Region Was So Little Entered.

 

It Made A Hardened Canoe Man Of Rolf,  And When,  On The Evening Of

The Fifth Day,  They Saw A Huge Eagle's Nest In A Dead Pine Tree

That Stood On The Edge Of A Long Swamp,  Both Felt They Had

Reached Their Own Country,  And Were Glad.

 

 

 

Chapter 18 (Animal Life Along The River)

It Must Not Be Supposed That,  Because It Has Been Duly Mentioned,

They Saw No Wild Life Along The River.  The Silent Canoe Man Has

The Best Of Opportunities.  There Were Plenty Of Deer Tracks

About The First Camp,  And That Morning,  As They Turned Up The

Hudson,  Rolf Saw His First Deer.  They Had Rounded A Point In

Rather Swift Water When Quonab Gave Two Taps On The Gunwale,  The

Usual Sign,  "Look Out," And Pointed To The Shore.  There,  Fifty

Yards Away On Bank,  Gazing At Them,  Was A Deer.  Stock Still He

Stood Like A Red Statue,  For He Was Yet In The Red Coat.  With

Three Or Four Strong Strokes,  Quonab Gave A Long And Mighty

Forward Spurt; Then Reached For His Gun.  But The Deer's White

Flag Went Up.  It Turned And Bounded Away,  The White Flag The

Last Thing To Disappear.  Rolf Sat Spellbound.  It Was So Sudden;

So Easy; It Soon Melted Into The Woods Again.  He Trembled After

It Was Gone.

 

Many A Time In The Evening They Saw Muskrats In The Eddies,  And

Once They Glimpsed A Black,  Shiny Something Like A Monstrous

Leech Rolling Up And Down As It Travelled In The Stream.  Quonab

Whispered,  "Otter," And Made Ready His Gun,  But It Dived And

Showed Itself No More. At One Of The Camps They Were Awakened By

An Extraordinary Tattoo In The Middle Of The Night -- A Harsh

Rattle Close By Their Heads; And They Got Up To Find That A

Porcupine Was Rattling His Teeth On The Frying-Pan In An Effort

To Increase The Amount Of Salt That He Could Taste On It.

Skookum,  Tied To A