Rolf in the Woods. Ernest Thompson Seton

an ill-judged partridge hunt. A minute later he was ignominiously chained to a penitential post, nor left it during the travellers' sojourn.

      In the afternoon Quonab returned with the cattle, and as he told Rolf he saw five deer, there was an unmistakable hunter gleam in his eye.

      Three cows in milk, and which had not been milked for two days, was a serious matter, needing immediate attention. Rolf had milked five cows twice a day for five years, and a glance showed old Van Trumper that the boy was an expert.

      “Good, good! I go now make feed swine.”

      He went into the outhouse, but a tow-topped, redcheeked girl ran after him. “Father, father, mother says—” and the rest was lost.

      “Myn Hemel! Myn Hemel! I thought it not so soon,” and the fat Dutchman followed the child. A moment later he reappeared, his jolly face clouded with a look of grave concern. “Hi yo big Injun, yo cahn paddle canoe?” Quonab nodded. “Den coom. Annette, pring Tomas und Hendrik.” So the father carried two-year-old Hendrik, while the Indian carried six-year-old Tomas, and twelve-year-old Annette followed in vague, uncomprehended alarm. Arrived at the shore the children were placed in the canoe, and then the difficulties came fully to the father's mind—he could not leave his wife. He must send the children with the messenger—In a sort of desperation, “Cahn you dem childen take to de house across de lake, and pring back Mrs. Callan? Tell her Marta Van Trumper need her right now mooch very kvick.” The Indian nodded. Then the father hesitated, but a glance at the Indian was enough. Something said, “He is safe,” and in spite of sundry wails from the little ones left with a dark stranger, he pushed off the canoe: “Yo take care for my babies,” and turned his brimming eyes away.

      The farmhouse was only two miles off, and the evening calm; no time was lost: what woman will not instantly drop all work and all interests, to come to the help of another in the trial time of motherhood?

      Within an hour the neighbour's wife was holding hands with the mother of the banished tow-heads. He who tempers the wind and appoints the season of the wild deer hinds had not forgotten the womanhood beyond the reach of skilful human help, and with the hard and lonesome life had conjoined a sweet and blessed compensation. What would not her sister of the city give for such immunity; and long before that dark, dread hour of night that brings the ebbing life force low, the wonderful miracle was complete; there was another tow-top in the settler's home, and all was well.

Chapter 16. Life with the Dutch Settler

       Table of Contents

      The Indians slept in the luxuriant barn of logs, with blankets, plenty of hay, and a roof. They were more than content, for now, on the edge of the wilderness, they were very close to wild life. Not a day or a night passed without bringing proof of that.

      One end of the barn was portioned off for poultry. In this the working staff of a dozen hens were doing their duty, which, on that first night of the “brown angels' visit,” consisted of silent slumber, when all at once the hens and the new hands were aroused by a clamorous cackling, which speedily stopped. It sounded like a hen falling in a bad dream, then regaining her perch to go to sleep again. But next morning the body of one of these highly esteemed branches of the egg-plant was found in the corner, partly devoured. Quonab examined the headless hen, the dust around, and uttered the word, “Mink.”

      Rolf said, “Why not skunk?”

      “Skunk could not climb to the perch.”

      “Weasel then.”

      “Weasel would only suck the blood, and would kill three or four.”

      “Coon would carry him away, so would fox or wildcat, and a marten would not come into the building by night.”

      There was no question, first, that it was a mink, and, second, that he was hiding about the barn until the hunger pang should send him again to the hen house. Quonab covered the hen's body with two or three large stones so that there was only one approach. In the way of this approach he buried a “number one” trap.

      That night they were aroused again; this time by a frightful screeching, and a sympathetic, inquiring cackle from the fowls.

      Arising, quickly they entered with a lantem. Rolf then saw a sight that gave him a prickling in his hair. The mink, a large male, was caught by one front paw. He was writhing and foaming, tearing, sometimes at the trap, sometimes at the dead hen, and sometimes at his own imprisoned foot, pausing now and then to utter the most ear-piercing shrieks, then falling again in crazy animal fury on the trap, splintering his sharp white teeth, grinding the cruel metal with bruised and bloody jaws, frothing, snarling, raving mad. As his foemen entered he turned on them a hideous visage of inexpressible fear and hate, rage and horror. His eyes glanced back green fire in the lantern light; he strained in renewed efforts to escape; the air was rank with his musky smell. The impotent fury of his struggle made a picture that continued in Rolf's mind. Quonab took a stick and with a single blow put an end to the scene, but never did Rolf forget it, and never afterward was he a willing partner when the trapping was done with those relentless jaws of steel.

      A week later another hen was missing, and the door of the hen house left open. After a careful examination of the dust, inside and out of the building, Quonab said, “Coon.” It is very unusual for coons to raid a hen house. Usually it is some individual with abnormal tastes, and once he begins, he is sure to come back. The Indian judged that he might be back the next night, so prepared a trap. A rope was passed from the door latch to a tree; on this rope a weight was hung, so that the door was selfshutting, and to make it self-locking he leaned a long pole against it inside. Now he propped it open with a single platform, so set that the coon must walk on it once he was inside, and so release the door. The trappers thought they would hear in the night when the door closed, but they were sleepy; they knew nothing until next morning. Then they found that the self-shutter had shut, and inside, crouched in one of the nesting boxes, was a tough, old fighting coon. Strange to tell, he had not touched a second hen. As soon as he found himself a prisoner he had experienced a change of heart, and presently his skin was nailed on the end of the barn and his meat was hanging in the larder.

      “Is this a marten,” asked little Annette. And when told not, her disappointment elicited the information that old Warren, the storekeeper, had promised her a blue cotton dress for a marten skin.

      “You shall have the first one I catch,” said Rolf.

      Life in Van Trumper's was not unpleasant. The mother was going about again in a week. Annette took charge of the baby, as well as of the previous arrivals. Hendrik senior was gradually overcoming his difficulties, thanks to the unexpected help, and a kindly spirit made the hard work not so very hard. The shyness that was at first felt toward the Indians wore off, especially in the case of Rolf, he was found so companionable; and the Dutchman, after puzzling over the combination of brown skin and blue eyes, decided that Rolf was a half-breed.

      August wore on not unpleasantly for the boy, but Quonab was getting decidedly restless. He could work for a week as hard as any white man, but his race had not risen to the dignity of patient, unremitting, life-long toil.

      “How much money have we now, Nibowaka?” was one of the mid-August indications of restlessness. Rolf reckoned up; half a month for Quonab, $15.00; for himself, $10.00; for finding the cows $2.00—$27.00 in all. Not enough.

      Three days later Quonab reckoned up again. Next day he said: “We need two months' open water to find a good country and build a shanty.” Then did Rolf do the wise thing; he went to fat Hendrik and told him all about it. They wanted to get a canoe and an outfit, and seek for a trapping or hunting ground that would not encroach on those already possessed, for the trapping law is rigid; even the death penalty is not considered too high in certain cases of trespass, provided the injured party is ready to be judge, jury, and executioner. Van Trumper was able to help them not a little in the matter of location—there was no use trying on the Vermont