Had he given them other names, calling them hymns and
incense, he would have been much nearer respecting them. He had
forgotten his mother's teaching: "If any man do anything
sincerely, believing that thereby he is worshipping God, he is
worshipping God." He disliked seeing Quonab use an axe or a gun
on Sunday, and the Indian, realizing that such action made "evil
medicine" for Rolf, practically abstained. But Rolf had not yet
learned to respect the red yarns the Indian hung from a deer's
skull, though he did come to understand that he must let them
alone or produce bad feeling in camp.
Sunday had become a day of rest and Quonab made it also a day of
song and remembrance.
They were sitting one Sunday night by the fire in the cabin,
enjoying the blaze, while a storm rattled on the window and door.
A white-footed mouse, one of a family that lived in the shanty,
was trying how close he could come to Skookum's nose without
being caught, while Rolf looked on. Quonab was lying back on a
pile of deer skins, with his pipe in his mouth, his head on the
bunk, and his hands clasped back of his neck.
There was an atmosphere of content and brotherly feeling; the
evening was young, when Rolf broke silence:
"Were you ever married, Quonab?"
"Ugh," was the Indian's affirmative.
Pages:
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231