Towering pines, so tall and erect that they seemed shooting upward to kiss the clouds, were the pillars of their cathedral. Its roof of tasselled boughs was stabbed by flashing needles of sunlight, which let in a flickering, mellow radiance, and traced a pattern on the woodland carpet. Every whiff of forest air was natural incense.
Dr. Phil stood as if in the audience-chamber of the King, and removed his wide-brimmed hat.
“Now unto the King eternal, immortal, invisible, the only wise God, be honor and glory, for ever and ever. Amen!” he said.
Then Cyrus’s voice led the worship.
“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow!”
he sang, in a strong, glad outburst.
Boys and guides, in a great chorus, swelled the familiar words. Each sweetly chirping woodland bird, after its own manner, echoed them. The music among the pine-tops mingled with them. The forest fairly rang with a magnificent, adoring Doxology.
“We ought to be decent kind of fellows after this,” said Cyrus, when the little service was over.
And the doctor answered,—
“I tell you, boy, the church was never built where a man feels so ready to worship the God-Father in spirit and in truth as he does in the wild woods.”