Rolf In The Woods | Page 6

of the wave both ways and fell in the trough; her views on
religious matters procured neither a witch's grave nor a prophet's crown,
but a sort of village contempt.
The Bible was her standard -- so far so good -- but she emphasized the
wrong parts of it. Instead of magnifying the damnation of those who
follow not the truth (as the village understood it), she was content to
semi-quote:
"Those that are not against me are with me," and "A kind heart is the
mark of His chosen." And then she made a final utterance, an echo
really of her father: "If any man do anything sincerely, believing that
thereby he is worshipping God, he is worshipping God."
Then her fate was sealed, and all who marked the blazing eyes, the
hollow cheeks, the yet more hollow chest and cough, saw in it all the
hand of an offended God destroying a blasphemer, and shook their
heads knowingly when the end came.
So Rolf was left alone in life, with a common school education, a
thorough knowledge of the Bible and of "Robinson Crusoe," a vague
tradition of God everywhere, and a deep distrust of those who should
have been his own people.
The day of the little funeral he left the village of Redding to tramp over
the unknown road to the unknown south where his almost unknown
Uncle Michael had a farm and, possibly, a home for him.
Fifteen miles that day, a night's rest in a barn, twenty- five miles the
next day, and Rolf had found his future home.
"Come in, lad," was the not unfriendly reception, for his arrival was
happily fallen on a brief spell of good humour, and a strong,
fifteen-year-old boy is a distinct asset on a farm.

Chapter 3.
Rolf Catches a Coon and Finds a Friend
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