he stream is strewn with huge
boulders, over which it foams snow white, pausing in quiet little
pools for breath before the next leap and scramble. Here and there at
the sides, stray tiny little waterfalls, very Thoreaus of streamlets,
content to wander off by themselves, away from the noisy rush of the
others, making little silvery rills of beauty in unobtrusive ways.
Over this gorge was a fallen log. Russell determined to enact the part
of Eliza in "Uncle Tom's Cabin," fleeing over the ice. It was a feat
to make a mother's heart stand still. Three separate times she
whipped him severely and forbade him to do it. He took the punishment
cheerfully, and went back to the log. He never gave up until he had
crossed it.

The vein of perseverance in his character was already setting into
firm, unyielding mould--the one trait to which Russell H. Conwell, the
preacher, the lecturer, writer, founder of college and hospital, may
attribute the success he has gained. This childish escapade was the
first to strike fire from its flint.

CHAPTER III

DAYS OF STUDY, WORK AND PLAY

The Schoolhouse in the Woods. Maple Sugar-making. The Orator of the
Dawn. A Boyish Prank. Capturing the Eagle's Nest.

At three years of age, he trudged off to school with his brother
Charles. Though Charles was three years the senior, the little fellow
struggled to keep pace with him in all their childish play and work.
Two miles the children walked daily to the schoolhouse, a long walk
for a toddler of three. But it laid the foundation of that strong,
rugged constitution that has carried him so unflinchingly through
the hard work of these later years. The walk to school was the most
important part of the performance, for lessons had no attraction for
the boy as yet. But the road through the woods to the schoolhouse was
a journey of ever new and never-ending excitement. The road lay along
a silver-voiced brook that rippled softly by shadowy rock, or splashed
joyous and exultant down its boulder-strewn path. It was this same
brook whose music drifted into his little attic bedroom at night,
stilled to a faint, far-away murmur as the wind died down, rising to a
high, clear crescendo of rushing, tumbling water as the breeze stirred
in the tree tops and brought to him the forest sounds. Hour after
hour he lay awake listening to it, his childish imagination picturing
fairies and elves holding their revels in the woods beyond. An
oratorical little br