Rolf in the Woods. Ernest Thompson Seton

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

       Table of Contents

      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.

Chapter 2. Rolf Kittering and the Soldier Uncle

       Table of Contents

      A feller that chatters all the time is bound to talk a

       certain amount of drivel.—The Sayings of Si Sylvanne

      This was the Crow Moon, the white man's March. The Grass Moon was at hand, and already the arrow bands of black-necked honkers were passing northward from the coast, sending down as they flew the glad tidings that the Hunger Moon was gone, that spring was come, yea, even now was in the land. And the flicker clucked from a high, dry bough, the spotted woodwale drummed on his chosen branch, the partridge drummed in the pine woods, and in the sky the wild ducks, winging, drummed their way. What wonder that the soul of the Indian should seek expression in the drum and the drum song of his race?

      Presently, as though remembering something, he went quietly to the southward under the ridge, just where it breaks to let the brook go by, along the edge of Strickland's Plain, and on that hill of sliding stone he found, as he always had, the blue-eyed liver-leaf smiling, the first sweet flower of spring! He did not gather it, he only sat down and looked at it. He did not smile, or sing, or utter words, or give it a name, but he sat beside it and looked hard at it, and, in the first place, he went there knowingly to find it. Who shall say that its beauty did not reach his soul?

      He took out his pipe and tobacco bag, but was reminded of something lacking—the bag was empty. He returned to his wigwam, and from their safe hanger or swinging shelf overhead, he took the row of stretched skins, ten muskrats and one mink, and set out along a path which led southward through the woods to the broad, open place called Strickland's Plain, across that, and over the next rock ridge to the little town and port of Myanos.

      SILAS PECK

       Trading Store

      was the sign over the door he entered. Men and women were buying and selling, but the Indian stood aside shyly until all were served, and Master Peck cried out:

      “Ho, Quonab! what have ye got for trade to-day?”

      Quonab produced his furs. The dealer looked at them narrowly and said:

      “They are too late in the season for primes; I cannot allow you more than seven cents each for the rats and seventy-five cents for the mink, all trade.”

      The Indian gathered up the bundle with an air of “that settles it,” when Silas called out:

      “Come now, I'll make it ten cents for the rats.”

      “Ten cents for rats, one dollar for mink, all cash, then I buy what I like,” was the reply.

      It was very necessary to Silas's peace that no customer of his should cross the street to the sign,

      SILAS MEAD

       Trading Store

      So the bargain, a fair one now, was made, and the Indian went off with a stock of tobacco, tea, and sugar.

      His way lay