ROLF IN THE WOODS
By Ernest Thompson Seton
[Chapters 10 and 60 not designated in the original file.]
Preface
In this story I have endeavoured to realize some of the influences that
surrounded the youth of America a hundred years ago, and made of them,
first, good citizens, and, later, in the day of peril, heroes that won
the battles of Lake Erie, Plattsburg, and New Orleans, and the great sea
fights of Porter, Bainbridge, Decatur, Lawrence, Perry, and MacDonough.
I have especially dwelt in detail on the woodland and peace scouting
in the hope that I may thus help other boys to follow the hard-climbing
trail that leads to the higher uplands.
For the historical events of 1812-14, I have consulted among books
chiefly, Theodore Roosevelt's “Naval War of 1812,” Peter S. Palmer's
“History of Lake Champlain,” and Walter Hill Crockett's “A History of
Lake Champlain,” 1909. But I found another and more personal mine of
information. Through the kindness of my friend, Edmund Seymour, a native
of the Champlain region, now a resident of New York, I went over all the
historical ground with several unpublished manuscripts for guides, and
heard from the children of the sturdy frontiersmen new tales of the
war; and in getting more light and vivid personal memories, I was glad,
indeed, to realize that not only were there valour and heroism on both
sides, but also gentleness and courtesy. Histories written by either
party at the time should be laid aside. They breathe the rancourous
hate of the writers of the age--the fighters felt not so--and the
many incidents given here of chivalry and consideration were actual
happenings, related to me by the descendants of those who experienced
them; and all assure me that these were a true reflex of the feelings of
the day.
I am much indebted to Miss Katherine Palmer, of Plattsburg, for kindly
allowing me to see the unpublished manuscript memoir of her grandfather,
Peter Sailly, who was Collector of the Port of Plattsburg at the time of
the war.
Another purpose in this story was to picture the real Indian with his
message for good or for evil.
Those who know nothing of the race will scoff and say they never heard
of such a thing as a singing and religious red man. Those who know him
well will say, “Yes, but you have given to your eastern Indian songs
and ceremonies which belong to the western tribes, and which are of
different epochs.” To the latter I reply:
“You know that the western Indians sang and prayed in this way. How do
you know that the eastern ones did not? We have no records, except
those by critics, savagely hostile, and contemptuous of all religious
observances but their own. The Ghost Dance Song belonged to a much more
recent time, no doubt, but it was purely Indian, and it is generally
admitted that the races of continental North America were of one stock,
and had no fundamentally different customs or modes of thought.”
The Sunrise Song was given me by Frederick R. Burton, author of
“American Primitive Music.” It is still in use among the Ojibwa.
The songs of the Wabanaki may be read in C. G. Leland's “Kuloskap the
Master.”
The Ghost Dance Song was furnished by Alice C. Fletcher, whose “Indian
Song and Story” will prove a revelation to those who wish to follow
further.
ERNEST THOMPSON SETON.
Chapter 1. The Wigwam Under the Rock
The early springtime sunrise was near at hand as Quonab, the last of the
Myanos Sinawa, stepped from his sheltered wigwam under the cliff that
borders the Asamuk easterly, and, mounting to the lofty brow of the
great rock that is its highest pinnacle, he stood in silence, awaiting
the first ray of the sun over the sea water that stretches between
Connecticut and Seawanaky.
His silent prayer to the Great Spirit was ended as a golden beam shot
from a long, low cloud-bank over the sea, and Quonab sang a weird Indian
song for the rising sun, an invocation to the Day God:
“O thou that risest from the low cloud
To burn in the all above;
I greet thee! I adore thee!”
Again and again he sang to the tumming of a small tom-tom, till the
great refulgent one had cleared the cloud, and the red miracle of the
sunrise was complete. Back to his wigwam went the red man, down to his
home tucked dosed under the sheltering rock, and, after washing his
hands in a basswood bowl, began to prepare his simple meal.
A tin-lined copper pot hanging over the fire was partly filled with
water; then, when it was boiling, some samp or powdered corn and some
clams were stirred in. While these were cooking, he took his smooth-bore
flint-lock, crawled gently over the ridge that screened his wigwam from
the northwest wind, and peered with hawk-like eyes across the broad
sheet of water that, held by a high beaver-dam, filled the little valley
of Asamuk Brook.
The winter ice was still on the pond, but in all the warming shallows
there was open water, on which were likely to be ducks. None were to be
seen, but by the edge of the ice was a round object which, although so
far away, he knew at a glance for a muskrat.
By crawling around the pond, the Indian could easily have come within
shot, but he returned at once to his wigwam, where he exchanged his gun
for the weapons of his fathers, a bow and arrows, and a long fish-line.
A short, quick stalk, and the muskrat, still eating a flagroot, was
within thirty feet. The fish-line was coiled on the ground and then
attached to an arrow, the bow bent--zip--the arrow picked up the line,
coil after coil, and trans-fixed the muskrat. Splash! and the animal was
gone under the ice.
But the cord was in the hands of the hunter; a little gentle pulling and
the rat came to view, to be despatched with a stick and secured. Had he
shot it with a gun, it had surely been lost.
He returned to his camp, ate his frugal breakfast, and fed a small,
wolfish-looking yellow dog that was tied in the lodge.
He skinned the muskrat carefully, first cutting a slit across the rear
and then turning the skin back like a glove, till it was off to the
snout; a bent stick thrust into this held it stretched, till in a day,
it was dry and ready for market. The body, carefully cleaned, he hung in
the shade to furnish another meal.
As he worked, there were sounds of trampling in the woods, and
presently a tall, rough-looking man, with a red nose and a curling white
moustache, came striding through brush and leaves. He stopped when
he saw the Indian, stared contemptuously at the quarry of the morning
chase, made a scornful remark about “rat-eater,” and went on toward the
wigwam, probably to peer in, but the Indian's slow, clear, “keep away!”
changed his plan. He grumbled something about “copper-coloured tramp,”
and started away in the direction of the nearest farmhouse.