he
top of the log pile when they worked, or running along the chute, while
the wild-cat strings of logs shot down the steep slide with lightning
speed. They were not in the least afraid lest the logs should jump the
chute, as they had often done before, killing or maiming the unhappy man
that came too near. For was not little Hans's life charmed, so that no
harm could befall him?

Now, it happened that Inga, little Hans's mother, came one day to the
river to see how he was getting on. Nils was then standing on a raft
hooking the floating logs with his boat-hook, while the boy was watching
him from the shore, shouting to him, throwing chips into the water, and
amusing himself as best he could. It was early in May, and the river
was swollen from recent thaws. Below the cataract where the lumbermen
worked, the broad, brown current moved slowly along with sluggish whirls
and eddies; but the raft was moored by chains to the shore, so that it
was in no danger of getting adrift. It was capital fun to see the logs
come rushing down the slide, plunging with a tremendous splash into the
river, and then bob up like live things after having bumped against the
bottom. Little Hans clapped his hands and yelled with delight when a
string of three or four came tearing along in that way, and dived, one
after the other, headlong into the water.

"Catch that one, papa!" he cried; "that is a good big fellow. He dived
like a man, he did. He has washed the dirt off his snout now; that was
the reason he took such a big plunge."

Nils never failed to reach his boat-hook after the log little Hans
indicated, for he liked to humor him, and little Hans liked to be
humored. He had an idea that he was directing his father's work, and
Nils invented all sorts of innocent devices to flatter little Hans's
dignity, and make him think himself indispensable. It was of no use,
therefore, for poor Inga to beg little Hans to go home with her. He had
so much to do, he said, that he couldn't. He even tried to tear himself
away from his mother when she took him by the arm and remonstrated with
him. And then and there the conviction stole upon Inga that her child
did not love her. She was nothing to him compared to what his father
was. And was it right for Nils thus to rob her of the boy's affection?
Little Hans could scarcely be blamed for loving his father better; for
love is largely dependent upon habit, and Nils had been his constant
companion since he was