here till your brains turn to mud--and they'll not have far
to turn either!"

"Go home to your bed, Euroclydon--you'll feel better in the morning!" we
advised with a calmness born of having been through this experience as
many as ten times before. But, as it chanced, Sylvanus was in earnest
this time, and we heard of him next in Canada, logging during the week
and preaching on Sundays, both with equal acceptance.

One night Sylvanus had a "tough" in his audience--an ill-bred ruffian
who scoffed when he gave out his text, called "Three cheers for
Ingersoll!" when he was half through with his discourse, and interjected
imitations of the fife and big drum at the end of each paragraph. It may
be said on his behalf that he had just come to camp, had never seen
Sylvanus bring down a six-foot pine, and knew not that he was named
Euroclydon--or why.

The ruddy crest of the speaker gradually bristled till it stood on end
like the comb of Chanticleer. He paused and looked loweringly at the
interrupter under his shaggy brows, pulling his under lip into his mouth
in a moment of grim resolve.

"I'll attend to you at the close of this divine service!" said
Euroclydon.

And he did, while his latest convert held his coat.

"An almighty convincing exhorter!" said Abram Sugg from Maine, when
Sylvanus had put the Ingersollian to bed in his own bunk, and was
feeding him on potted turkey.

On the hillsides, with their roots deep in the crevices of the rocks,
grew the pines. One by one they fell all through that winter. The
strokes of the men's axes rang clear in the frosty air as chisel rings
on steel. Whenever Sylvanus Cobb came out of the door of the warm
log-hut where the men slept, the cold air met him like a wall. He walked
light-headed in the moistureless chill of the rare sub-Arctic air. He
heard the thunder of the logs down the _chute_. The crash of a falling
giant far away made him turn his head. It was a life to lead, and he
rubbed his hands as he thought of Edinburgh class-rooms.

Soon he became boss of the gang, and could contract for men of his own.
There was larger life in the land of resin and pine-logs. No tune in all
broad Scotland was so merry as the whirr of the sawmill, when the little
flashing ribbon of light runs before the swift-cutting edge of the saw.
It made Sylvanus remember the pale sunshine his feet used to make on the
tan-coloured sands of North Berwick, when he walked two summers before
with May Chi