Deep feelin's ain't any count by themselves; work 'em off,
an' ye're somebody; weep 'em off an' you'd be more use with
a heart o' stone--Sayings of Si Sylvanne.
“Quonab, I am going out to get her a partridge.” “Ugh, good.”
So Rolf went off. For a moment he was inclined to grant Skookom's prayer
for leave to, follow, but another and better plan came in mind. Skookum
would most likely find a mother partridge, which none should kill in
June, and there was a simple way to find a cock; that was, listen. It
was now the evening calm, and before Rolf had gone half a mile he
heard the distant “Thump, thump, thump, thump--rrrrrrr” of a partridge,
drumming. He went quickly and cautiously toward the place, then waited
for the next drumming. It was slow in coming, so he knelt down by a
mossy, rotten log, and struck it with his hands to imitate the thump and
roll of the partridge. At once this challenge procured response.
“Thump--thump--thump,, thump rrrrrrrrrrrr” it came, with martial swing
and fervour, and crawling nearer, Rolf spied the drummer, pompously
strutting up and down a log some forty yards away. He took steady aim,
not for the head--a strange gun, at forty yards--for the body. At the
crack, the bird fell dead, and in Rolf's heart there swelled up a little
gush of joy, which he believed was all for the sake of the invalid, but
which a finer analysis might have proved to be due quite as much to
pride in himself and his newly bought gun.
Night was coming on when he got back, and he found the Dutch parents
in some excitement. “Dot Indian he gay no bring Annette indoors for de
night. How she sleep outdoors--like dog--like Bigger--like tramp? Yah
it is bad, ain't it?” and poor old Hendrik looked sadly upset and
mystified.
“Hendrik, do you suppose God turns out worse air in the night than in
the day?”
“Ach, dunno.”
“Well, you see Quonab knows what he's doing.”
“Yah.”
“Well, let him do it. He or I'll sleep alongside the child she'll be
all right,” and Rolf thought of those horrible brown crawlers under the
bedding indoors.
Rolf had much confidence in the Indian as a doctor, but he had more in
his own mother. He was determined to give Annette the quinine, yet he
hesitated to interfere. At length, he said: “It is cool enough now; I
will put these thin curtains round her bed.”
“Ugh, good!” but the red man sat there while it was being done.
“You need not stay now; I'll watch her, Quonab.”
“Soon, give more medicine,” was the reply that Rolf did not want. So he
changed his ruse. “I wish you'd take that partridge and make soup of it.
I've had my hands in poison ivy, so I dare not touch it.”
“Ach, dot shall I do. Dot kin myself do,” and the fat mother, laying the
recent baby in its cradle, made cumbrous haste to cook the bird.
“Foiled again,” was Rolf's thought, but his Yankee wit was with him. He
laid one hand on the bowl of snake-root tea. It was lukewarm. “Do you
give it hot or cold, Quonab?”
“Hot.”
“I'll take it in and heat it.” He carried it off, thinking, “If Quonab
won't let me give the bark extract, I'll make him give it.” In the gloom
of the kitchen he had no difficulty in adding to the tea, quite unseen,
a quarter of the extract; when heated, he brought it again, and the
Indian himself gave the dose.
As bedtime drew near, and she heard the red man say he would sleep
there, the little one said feebly, “Mother, mother,” then whispered in
her mother's ear, “I want Rolf.”
Rolf spread his blanket by the cot and slept lightly. Once or twice he
rose to look at Annette. She was moving in her sleep, but did not awake.
He saw to it that the mosquito bar was in place, and slept till morning.
There was no question that the child was better. The renewed interest in
food was the first good symptom, and the partridge served the end of its
creation. The snakeroot and the quinine did noble work, and thenceforth
her recovery was rapid. It was natural for her mother to wish the child
back indoors. It was a matter of course that she should go. It was
accepted as an unavoidable evil that they should always have those brown
crawlers about the bed.
But Rolf felt differently. He knew what his mother would have thought
and done. It meant another visit to Warren's, and the remedy he brought
was a strong-smelling oil, called in those days “rock oil”--a crude
petroleum. When all cracks in the bed and near wall were treated with
this, it greatly mitigated, if it did not quite end, the nuisance of the
“plague that walks in the dark.”
Meanwhile, Quonab had made good his welcome by working on the farm. But
when a week had flown, he showed signs of restlessness. “We have enough
money, Nibowaka, why do we stay?”
Rolf was hauling a bucket of water from the well at the time. He stopped
with his burden on the well-sweep, gazed into the well, and said slowly:
“I don't know.” If the truth were set forth, it would be that this was
the only home circle he knew. It was the clan feeling that held him, and
soon it was clearly the same reason that was driving Quonab to roam.
“I have heard,” said the Indian, “that my people still dwell in Canada,
beyond Rouse's Point. I would see them. I will come again in the Red
Moon (August).”
So they hired a small canoe, and one bright morning, with Skookum in the
bow, Quonab paddled away on his voyage of 120 miles on the plead waters
of Lakes George and Champlain. His canoe became a dark spot on the
water; slowly it faded till only the flashing paddle was seen, and that
was lost around a headland.
The next day Rolf was sorry he let Quonab go alone, for it was evident
that Van Trumper needed no help for a month yet; that is, he could not
afford to hire, and while it was well enough for Rolf to stay a few days
and work to equalize his board, the arrangement would not long continue
satisfactory to both.
Yet there was one thing he must do before leaving, take Annette to pick
out her dress. She was well again now, and they set off one morning
in the canoe, she and Rolf. Neither father nor mother could leave the
house. They had their misgivings, but what could they do? She was
bright and happy, full of the childish joy that belongs to that age, and
engaged on such an important errand for the first time in her life.
There was something more than childish joy showing in her face, an older
person would have seen that, but it was largely lost on Rolf. There was
a tendency to blush when she laughed, a disposition to tease her “big
brother,” to tyrannize over him in little things.
“Now, you tell me some more about 'Robinson Crusoe,'” she began, as soon
as they were in the canoe, and Rolf resumed the ancient, inspiring tale
to have it listened to eagerly, but criticized from the standpoint of
a Lake George farm. “Where was his wife?” “How could he have a farm
without hens?” “Dried grapes must be nice, but I'd rather have pork than
goat,” etc.
Rolf, of course, took the part of Robinson Crusoe, and it gave him a
little shock to hear Quonab called his man Friday.
At the west side they were to invite Mrs. Callan to join their shopping
trip, but in any case they were to borrow a horse and buckboard. Neither
Mrs. Callan nor the buckboard was available, but they were welcome to
the horse. So Annette was made comfortable on a bundle of blankets,
and chattered incessantly while Rolf walked alongside with the grave
interest and superiority of a much older brother. So they crossed the
five-mile portage and came to Warren's store. Nervous and excited,
with sparkling eyes, Annette laid down her marten skin, received five
dollars, and set about the tremendous task of selecting her first dress
of really, truly calico print; and Rolf realized that the joy he had
found in his new rifle was a very small affair, compared with the
epoch-making, soul-filling, life-absorbing, unspeakable, and cataclysmal
bliss that a small girl can have in her first chance of unfettered
action in choice of a cotton print.
“Beautiful?” How can mere words do justice to masses of yellow corn,
mixed recklessly with green and scarlet poppies on a bright blue ground.
No, you should have seen Annette's dress, or you cannot expect to get
the adequate thrill. And when they found that there was enough cash left
over to add a red cotton parasol to the glorious spoils, every one there
beamed in a sort of friendly joy, and the trader, carried away by the
emotions of the hour, contributed a set of buttons of shining brass.
Warren kept a “meal house,” which phrase was a ruse that saved him from
a burdensome hospitality. Determined to do it all in the best style,
Rolf took Annette to the meal-house table. She was deeply awed by the
grandeur of a tablecloth and white plates, but every one was kind.
Warren, talking to a stranger opposite, and evidently resuming a subject
they had discussed, said:
“Yes, I'd like to send the hull lot down to Albany this week, if I could
get another man for the canoe.”
Rolf was interested at once and said: “What wages are you offering?”
“Twenty-five dollars and board.”
“How will I do?”
“Well,” said Warren, as though thinking it over: “I dunno but ye would.
Could ye go to-morrow?”
“Yes, indeed, for one month.”
“All right, it's a bargain.”
And so Rolf took the plunge that influenced his whole life.
But Annette whispered gleefully and excitedly, “May I have some of that,
and that?” pointing to every strange food she could see, and got them
all.
After noon they set out on their return journey, Annette clutching her
prizes, and prattling incessantly, while Rolf walked alongside, thinking
deeply, replying to her chatter, but depressed by the thought of
good-bye tomorrow. He was aroused at length by a scraping sound overhead
and a sharp reprimand, “Rolf, you'll tear my new parasol, if you don't
lead the horse better.”
By two o'clock they were at Callan's. Another hour and they had crossed
the lake, and Annette, shrill with joy, was displaying her treasures to
the wonder and envy of her kin.
Making a dress was a simple matter in those and Marta promised: “Yah,
soom day ven I one have, shall I it sew.” Meanwhile, Annette was
quaffing deep, soul-satisfying draughts in the mere contempt of the
yellow, red, green, and blue glories in which was soon to appear in
public. And when the bed came, she fell asleep holding the dress-goods
stuff in arms, and with the red parasol spread above her head, tired
out, but inexpressibly happy.