The Boy leaped on the fallen monarch of the woods with a new sense of
power. Far above gleamed a tiny space in the sky. His hand had made it.
He was a force to be reckoned with now. He was doing things that counted
in a man's world.
Day after day his axe rang in the woods until a big white patch of sky
showed with gleaming piles of clouds. And shimmering sunbeams were
warming the earth for the seed of the coming spring. His tall thin body
ached with mortal weariness, but the spirit within was too proud to
whine or complain. He had taken a man's place. His mother needed him and
he'd play the part.
The winter was the hardest and busiest he had ever known. He shot his
first wild turkey from the door of their log camp the second week after
arrival. Proud of his marksmanship he talked of it for a week, and yet
he didn't make a good hunter. He allowed his father to go alone oftener
than he would accompany him. There was a queer little voice somewhere
within that protested against the killing. He wouldn't acknowledge it to
himself but half the joy of his shot at his turkey was destroyed by the
sight of the blood-stained broken wing when he picked it up.
The mother watched this trait with deepening pride. His practice at
writing and reading was sheer joy now. Her interest was so keen he
always tried his best that he might see her smile.
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