They left the river and plunged into the trackless forest. No roads had
yet scarred its virgin soil. Only the blazed trail for the first ten
miles--the trail Tom had marked with his own hatchet--and then the
magnificent woods without a mark. Five miles further they penetrated,
cutting down the brush and trees to make way for the wagon.
They stopped at last on a beautiful densely wooded hill near a stream of
limpid water. A rough camp was quickly built Indian fashion and covered
with bear skins.
The next day the father put into the Boy's hand the new axe he had
bought for him.
"You're not quite eight years old, Boy," he said, encouragingly, "but
you're big as a twelve-year-old an' you're spunky. Do you think you can
swing an axe that's a man's size?"
"Yes," was the sturdy answer.
And from that day he did it with a song on his lips no matter how heavy
the heart that beat in his little breast.
At first they cut the small poles and built a half-faced camp, and made
it strong enough to stand the storms of winter in case a cabin could not
be finished before spring. This half-faced camp was made of small logs
built on three sides, with the fourth open to the south. In front of
this opening the log fire was built and its flame never died day or
night.
To the soul of the Boy this half-faced camp with its blazing logs in the
shadow of giant trees was the most wonderful dwelling he had ever seen.
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