Rolf in the Woods

The day was nearly done before their new canoe was gummed and ready with the new supplies. When dealing, old Sylvanne had a mild, quiet manner, and a peculiar way of making funny remarks that led some to imagine he was “easy” in business; but it was usual to find at the end that he had lost nothing by his manners, and rival traders shunned an encounter with Long Sylvanne of the unruffled brow.

When business was done — keen and complete — he said: “Now, I’m a goin’ to give each of ye a present,” and handed out two double-bladed jackknives, new things in those days, wonderful things, precious treasures in their eyes, sources of endless joy; and even had they known that one marten skin would buy a quart of them, their pleasant surprise and childish joy would not have been in any way tempered or alloyed.

“Ye better eat with me, boys, an’ start in the morning.” So they joined the miller’s long, continuous family, and shared his evening meal. Afterward as they sat for three hours and smoked on the broad porch that looked out on the river, old Sylvanne, who had evidently taken a fancy to Rolf, regaled them with a long, rambling talk on “fellers and things,” that was one of the most interesting Rolf had ever listened to. At the time it was simply amusing; it was not till years after that the lad realized by its effect on himself, its insight, and its hold on his memory, that Si Sylvanne’s talk was real wisdom. Parts of it would not look well in print; but the rugged words, the uncouth Saxonism, the obscene phrase, were the mere oaken bucket in which the pure and precious waters were hauled to the surface.

“Looked like he had ye pinched when that shyster got ye in to Lyons Falls. Wall, there’s two bad places for Jack Hoag; one is where they don’t know him at all, an’ take him on his looks; an’ t’other is where they know him through and through for twenty years, like we hev. A smart rogue kin put up a false front fer a year or maybe two, but given twenty year to try him, for and bye, summer an’ winter, an’ I reckon a man’s make is pretty well showed up, without no dark corners left unexplored.”

“Not that I want to jedge him harsh, coz I don’t know what kind o’ maggots is eatin’ his innards to make him so ornery. I’m bound to suppose he has ’em, or he wouldn’t act so dum like it. So I says, go slow and gentle before puttin’ a black brand on any feller; as my mother used to say, never say a bad thing till ye ask, ’Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?’ An’ I tell you, the older I git, the slower I jedge; when I wuz your age, I wuz a steel trap on a hair trigger, an’ cocksure. I tell you, there ain’t anythin’ wiser nor a sixteen-year-old boy, ’cept maybe a fifteen-year-old girl.”

“Ye’ll genilly find, lad, jest when things looks about as black as they kin look, that’s the sign of luck a-comin’ your way, pervidin’ ye hold steady, keep cool and kind; something happens every time to make it all easy. There’s always a way, an’ the stout heart will find it.”

“Ye may be very sure o’ this, boy, yer never licked till ye think ye air an’ if ye won’t think it, ye can’t be licked. It’s just the same as being sick. I seen a lot o’ doctorin’ in my day, and I’m forced to believe there ain’t any sick folks ’cept them that thinks they air sick.”

“The older I git, the more I’m bound to consider that most things is inside, anyhow, and what’s outside don’t count for much.”

“So it stands to reason when ye play the game for what’s inside, ye win over all the outside players. When ye done kindness to Hoag, ye mightn’t a meant it, but ye was bracin’ up the goodness in yerself, or bankin’ it up somewher’ on the trail ahead, where it was needed. And he was simply chawin’ his own leg off, when he done ye dirt. I ain’t much o’ a prattlin’ Christian, but I reckon as a cold-blooded, business proposition it pays to lend the neighbour a hand; not that I go much on gratitude. It’s scarcer’n snowballs in hell — which ain’t the point; but I take notice there ain’t any man’ll hate ye more’n the feller that knows he’s acted mean to ye. An’ there ain’t any feller more ready to fight yer battles than the chap that by some dum accident has hed the luck to help ye, even if he only done it to spite some one else — which ’minds me o’ McCarthy’s bull pup that saved the drowning kittens by mistake, and ever after was a fightin’ cat protector, whereby he lost the chief joy o’ his life, which had been cat-killin’. An’ the way they cured the cat o’ eatin’ squirrels was givin’ her a litter o’ squirrels to raise.”