Aunt Prue, sharp-eyed and red-nosed, was actually shy at first, but
all formality vanished as Rolf was taught the mysteries of pig-feeding,
hen-feeding, calf-feeding, cow-milking, and launched by list only in
a vast number of duties familiar to him from his babyhood. What a list
there was. An outsider might have wondered if Aunt Prue was saving
anything for herself, but Rolf was used to toil. He worked without
ceasing and did his best, only to learn in time that the best could win
no praise, only avert punishment. The spells of good nature arrived more
seldom in his uncle's heart. His aunt was a drunken shrew and soon Rolf
looked on the days of starving and physical misery with his mother as
the days of his happy youth gone by.
He was usually too tired at night and too sleepy in the morning to say
his prayers, and gradually he gave it up as a daily habit. The more he
saw of his kinsfolk, the more wickedness came to view; and yet it was
with a shock that he one day realized that some fowls his uncle brought
home by night were there without the owner's knowledge or consent. Micky
made a jest of it, and intimated that Rolf would have to “learn to do
night work very soon.” This was only one of the many things that showed
how evil a place was now the orphan's home.
At first it was not clear to the valiant uncle whether the silent boy
was a superior to be feared, or an inferior to be held in fear, but
Mick's courage grew with non-resistance, and blows became frequent;
although not harder to bear than the perpetual fault-finding and
scolding of his aunt, and all the good his mother had implanted was
being shrivelled by the fires of his daily life.
Rolf had no chance to seek for companions at the village store, but an
accident brought one to him. Before sunrise one spring morning he went,
as usual, to the wood lot pasture for the cow, and was surprised to find
a stranger, who beckoned him to come. On going near he saw a tall
man with dark skin and straight black hair that was streaked with
gray--undoubtedly an Indian. He held up a bag and said, “I got coon
in that hole. You hold bag there, I poke him in.” Rolf took the sack
readily and held it over the hole, while the Indian climbed the tree to
a higher opening, then poked in this with a long pole, till all at once
there was a scrambling noise and the bag bulged full and heavy. Rolf
closed its mouth triumphantly. The Indian laughed lightly, then swung to
the ground.
“Now, what will you do with him?” asked Rolf.
“Train coon dog,” was the answer.
“Where?”
The Indian pointed toward the Asamuk Pond.
“Are you the singing Indian that lives under Ab's Rock?
“Ugh! [*] Some call me that. My name is Quonab.”
“Wait for an hour and then I will come and help,” volunteered Rolf
impulsively, for the hunting instinct was strong in him.
The Indian nodded. “Give three yelps if you no find me;” then he
shouldered a short stick, from one end of which, at a safe distance from
his back, hung the bag with the coon. And Rolf went home with the cow.
He had acted on hasty impulse in offering to come, but now, in the
normal storm state of the household, the difficulties of the course
appeared. He cudgelled his brain for some plan to account for his
absence, and finally took refuge unwittingly in ancient wisdom: “When
you don't know a thing to do, don't do a thing.” Also, “If you can't
find the delicate way, go the blunt way.”
So having fed the horses, cleaned the stable, and milked the cow, fed
the pigs, the hens, the calf, harnessed the horses, cut and brought in
wood for the woodshed, turned out the sheep, hitched the horses to the
wagon, set the milk out in the creaming pans, put more corn to soak for
the swill barrel, ground the house knife, helped to clear the breakfast
things, replaced the fallen rails of a fence, brought up potatoes from
the root cellar, all to the maddening music of a scolding tongue, he set
out to take the cow back to the wood lot, sullenly resolved to return
when ready.
* Ugh (yes) and wah (no) are Indianisms that continue no
matter how well the English has been acquired.