o mine, setting sail with two bits of
driftwood for paddles. We pulled for the south shore, but the
current carried us rapidly down-river. In a bay some two miles
below we found, to our joy, the two sections of the big raft
undergoing repairs. At daybreak D'ri put off in the woods for home.

"Don't like the idee o' goin' int' the British navy," said he. "'D
ruther chop wood 'n' ketch bears over 'n St. Lawrence County.
Good-by, Ray! Tek care o' yerself."

Those were the last words he said to me, and soon I was on the raft
again, floating toward the great city of my dreams. I had a mighty
fear the schooner would overhaul us, but saw nothing more of her.
I got new clothes in Montreal, presenting myself in good repair.
They gave me hearty welcome, those good friends of my mother, and I
spent a full year in the college, although, to be frank, I was near
being sent home more than once for fighting and other deviltry.

It was midsummer when I came back again. I travelled up the river
road, past our island refuge of that dark night; past the sweeping,
low-voiced currents that bore me up; past the scene of our wreck in
the whirlwind; past the great gap in the woods, to stand open God
knows how long. I was glad to turn my face to the south shore, for
in Canada there was now a cold welcome for most Yankees, and my
fists were sore with resenting the bitter taunt. I crossed in a
boat from Iroquois, and D'ri had been waiting for me half a day at
the landing. I was never so glad to see a man--never but once.
Walking home I saw corn growing where the forest had been--acres of
it.

"D'ri," said I, in amazement, "how did you ever do it? There 's
ten years' work here."

"God helped us," said he, soberly. "The trees went over 'n the
windfall,--slammed 'em down luk tenpins fer a mild er more,--an' we
jes' burnt up the rubbish."

IV

April was near its end. The hills were turning green, albeit we
could see, here and there on the high ledge above us, little
patches of snow--the fading footprints of winter. Day and night we
could hear the wings of the wild fowl roaring in the upper air as
they flew northward. Summer was coming,--the summer of 1812,--and
the war with the British. The President had called for a hundred
thousand volunteers to go into training for battle. He had also
proclaimed there would be no more whipping in the ranks. Then my
father told me that, since I could have no peace at home, I should