The little cabin was very still. The Boy lifted his face to his
mother's curiously:
"Ma, you said God counted the beat of a sparrow's wing?"
"Yes."
"Well, what was He doin' when that Indian scalped my grandpa?"
The mother threw a startled look at the bold little questioner and
answered reverently:
"Keeping watch in Heaven, my Boy. The hairs of your head are numbered
and not one falls without his knowledge. We had to pay the price of
blood for this beautiful country. Nothing is ever worth having that
doesn't cost precious lives."
Again the cabin was still. An owl's deep cry boomed from the woods and a
solitary wolf answered in the distance. The Boy's brow was wrinkled for
a moment and then he suddenly looked up to his father's rugged face:
"And what became of Dan'l Boone?"
"Oh, he lit on his feet all right. He always did. He moved on with
Stuart, built him another camp in the deepest woods he could find and
hunted there all winter--jest think, Boy, all winter--every day--thar
wuz a man that wuz a man shore nuff!"
"Yes, sirree!" the listener agreed.
The mother lifted her head and thoughtfully watched the sparkling eyes.
"And do you want to know why Daniel Boone was great, my son?" she
quietly asked.
"Yes, why?" was the quick response.
"Because he used his mind and his hands, while the other men around him
just used their hands.
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