The school flickered out in five weeks and the following summer another lasted for six weeks.

And then they moved to the land Tom had staked off in the heart of the great forest fifteen miles from the northern banks of the Ohio. He would still be in sight of the soil of Kentucky.

The Boy\'s heart beat with new wonder as they slowly floated across the broad surface of the river. He could conceive of no greater one.

"There is a bigger one!" his father said. "The Mississippi is the daddy of \'em all—the Ohio\'s lost when it rolls into her banks—stretchin\' for a thousand miles an\' more from the mountains in the north way down to the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans."

"And it\'s all ours?" he asked in wonder.

"Yes, and plenty more big ones that pour into hit from the West."

The Boy saw again the impassioned face of the orator telling the glories of his country, and his heart swelled with pride.

They left the river and plunged into the trackless forest. No roads had yet scarred its virgin soil. Only the blazed trail for the first ten miles—the trail Tom had marked with his own hatchet—and then the magnificent woods without a mark. Five miles further they penetrated, cutting down the brush and trees to make way for the wagon.

They stopped at last on a beautiful densely wooded hill near a stream of limpid water. A rough camp was quickly built Indian fashion and covered with bear skins.

The next day the father put into the Boy\'s hand the new axe he had bought for him.

"You\'re not quite eight years old, Boy," he said, encouragingly, "but you\'re big as a twelve-year-old an\' you\'re spunky. Do you think you can swing an axe that\'s a man\'s size?"

"Yes," was the sturdy answer.

And from that day he did it with a song on his lips no matter how heavy the heart that beat in his little breast.

At first they cut the small poles and built a half-faced camp, and made it strong enough to stand the storms of winter in case a cabin could not be finished before spring. This half-faced camp was made of small logs built on three sides, with the fourth open to the south. In front of this opening the log fire was built and its flame never died day or night.

To the soul of the Boy this half-faced camp with its blazing logs in the shadow of giant trees was the most wonderful dwelling he had ever seen. The stars that twinkled in the sky beyond the lacing boughs were set in his ceiling. No king in his palace could ask for more.

But into the young mother\'s heart slowly crept the first shadows of a nameless dread. Fifteen miles from a human habitation in the depths of an unmarked wilderness with only a hunter\'s camp for her home, and she had dreamed of schools! To her children her face always gave good cheer. But at night she lay awake for long, pitiful hours watching the stars and fighting the battle alone with despair.

Yet there was never a thought of surrender. God lived and her faith was in Him. The same stars were shining above that sparkled in old Virginia and Kentucky. Something within sang for joy at the sight of her Boy—strong of limb and dauntless of soul. He was God\'s answer to her cry, and always she went the even tenor of her way singing softly that he might hear.

His father set him to the task of clearing the first acre of ground for the crop next spring. It seemed a joke to send a child with an axe into that huge forest and tell him to clear the way for civilization. And yet he went with firm, eager steps.

He chose the biggest tree in sight for his first task—a giant oak three feet in diameter, its straight trunk rising a hundred feet without a limb or knot to mar its perfect beauty.

The Boy leaped on the fallen monarch of the woods with a new sense of power. Far above gleamed a tiny space in the sky. His hand had made it. He was a force to be reckoned with now. He was doing things that counted in a man\'s world.

Day after day his axe rang in the woods until a big white patch of sky showed with gleaming piles of clouds. And shimmering sunbeams were warming the earth for the seed of the coming spring. His tall thin body ached with mortal weariness, but the spirit within was too proud to whine or complain. He had taken a man\'s place. His mother needed him and he\'d play the part.

The winter was the hardest and busiest he had ever known. He shot his first wild turkey from the door of their log camp the second week after arrival. Proud of his marksmanship he talked of it for a week, and yet he didn\'t make a good hunter. He allowed his father to go alone oftener than he would accompany him. There was a queer little voice somewhere within that protested against the killing. He wouldn\'t acknowledge it to himself but half the joy of his shot at his turkey was destroyed by the sight of the blood-stained broken wing when he picked it up.

The mother watched this trait with deepening pride. His practice at writing and reading was sheer joy now. Her interest was so keen he always tried his best that he might see her smile.

It was time to begin the spring planting before the heavy logs were rolled and burned and the smaller ones made ready for the cabin. The corn couldn\'t............