What boy would not exult at the thought of it? Here
was freedom from a brutal tyranny that was crushing out his young
life; here was a dream of the wild world coming true, with
gratification of all the hunter instincts that he had held in his
heart for years, and nurtured in that single, ragged volume of
"Robinson Crusoe." The plunge was not a plunge, except it be one
when an eagle, pinion-bound, is freed and springs from a cliff of
the mountain to ride the mountain wind.
The memory of that fateful cooning day was deep and lasting.
Never afterward did smell of coon fail to bring it back; in spite
of the many evil incidents it was a smell of joy.
"Where are you going, Quonab?" he asked one morning, as he saw
the Indian rise at dawn and go forth with his song drum, after
warming it at the fire. He pointed up to the rock, and for the
first time Rolf heard the chant for the sunrise. Later he heard
the Indian's song for "Good Hunting," and another for "When His
Heart Was Bad." They were prayers or praise, all addressed to the
Great Spirit, or the Great Father, and it gave Rolf an entirely
new idea of the red man, and a startling light on himself.
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