“Jesus, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly!”
One by one the men joined in and the solo passed into the chorus of a hundred voices. Out through the twilight the melody rolled, waking the sleeping pines, crossing the frozen lakes. The men in the stables, harnessing their horses, heard the song and softly whistled it; the cook, busy with the pots and pans, hummed it in unison and the swearing cookee closed his profane mouth and listened in astonished silence. Over in the office where the officials slept, the song caused silent amazement, for it was unlike the morning hour when oaths and curses break the stillness.
“Other refuge have I none;
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee.”
sang the men, unconscious of aught save the song.
“Leave, ah! leave me not alone”—
and it came from the hearts of those who knew the weight of lonely weeks and months. The Sky Pilot in the office turned his face to the wall and prayed while they sang this hymn which the men had sung at the service the night before.
“All out,” cried the “push.”
From the shack streamed forth the men, singing the song of comfort. Into groups they separated, each going his appointed way, but the hymn continued in all parts of the forest until the sweet melody died to tender murmurs and was lost in the distant evergreens. In all that North Star State no happier body of men went forth to toil, for with them went the spirit of song.