Rolf in the Woods

by Ernest Thompson Seton

He lay still for a long time, in hopes that some of his friends might come. He tried to raise his voice, but had no strength. Then he remembered the smoke signal that had saved him when he was lost in the woods. In spite of his wounded arm, he got out his flint and steel, and prepared to make a fire. But all the small wood he could reach was wet with recent rains. An old pine stump was on the bank not far away; he might cut kindling-wood from that to start his fire, and he reached for his knife. Alas! its case was empty. Had Rolf been four years younger, he might have broken down and wept at this. It did seem such an unnecessary accumulation of disasters. Without gun or knife, how was he to call his friends?

He straightened his mangled limb in the position of least pain and lay for a while. The September sun fell on his back and warmed him. He was parched with thirst, but only thirty yards away was a little rill. With a long and fearful crawling on his breast, he dragged himself to the stream and drank till he could drink no more, then rested, washed his head and hands, 'and tried to crawl again to the warm place. But the sun had dropped behind the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and the chill of the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.

Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint sayings, and one above all was clear:

“Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done yer best, keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right.” Yes, that was what he said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.

The sunset slowly ended; the night wind blew; the dragging hours brought gloom that entered in. This seemed indeed the direst strait of his lot. Crippled, dying of cold, helpless, nothing to do but wait and die, and from his groaning lips there came the half-forgotten prayer his mother taught him long ago, “O God, have mercy on me!” and then he forgot.

When he awoke, the stars were shining; he was numb with cold, but his mind was clear.

“This is war,” he thought, “and God knows we never sought it.” And again the thought: “When I offered to serve my country, I offered my life. I am willing to die, but this is not a way of my choosing,” and a blessed, forgetfulness came upon him again.

But his was a stubborn-fibred race; his spark of life was not so quickly quenched; its blazing torch might waver, wane, and wax again. In the chill, dark hour when the life-lamp flickers most, he wakened to hear the sweet, sweet music of a dog's loud bark; in a minute he heard it nearer, and yet again at hand, and Skookum, erratic, unruly, faithful Skookum, was bounding around and barking madly at the calm, unblinking stars.

A human “halloo” rang not far away; then others, and Skookum barked and barked.

Now the bushes rustled near, a man came out, kneeled down, laid hand on the dying soldier's brow, and his heart. He opened his eyes, the man bent over him and softly said, “Nibowaka! it's Quonab.”