"There is a bigger one!" his father said. "The Mississippi is the daddy of 'em all—the Ohio's lost when it rolls into her banks—stretchin' for a thousand miles an' more from the mountains in the north way down to the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans."
"And it's all ours?" he asked in wonder.
"Yes, and plenty more big ones that pour into hit from the West."
The Boy saw again the impassioned face of the orator telling the glories of his country, and his heart swelled with pride.
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.