But not so Nathaniel, who was eleven years old. He did not need any preaching from his father the minister, "Fear not, but go forward." He delighted in it all,—the pitching of camp each night, the suppers cooked over glowing coals, the lullaby of the soughing of the pines and the murmuring of the river. And though the journey was slow, it was pleasantly varied. Sometimes he rode behind his father on the pillion with his mother, sometimes he walked sturdily with the men, riding and tying, as they called it, each having his turn at the few horses. And on Sundays they stopped for worship and rest, for these were good Puritan people. Nathaniel had no regrets, and no fears for the future. He knew that they were going to a new clearing, where they should have to make their own log houses before they could have a place to live in, and that there would be no church for his father to preach in, and at first no school. But there was the great out of doors to live and learn in, and he was not afraid of work. He had been brought up on Bible texts and the one he knew best was, "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might."

Even the hardships of the first winter did not take away his spirit. The winds came in cold through the oiled paper which served for window panes, the snow lay deep, and food was often scarce. But he learned to walk on snowshoes such as the Indians had, he worked hard to do his share of woodcutting and, best of all, one of the men taught him to handle a gun. Everyone who could hunt for deer or rabbits or kill the wild pigeons as they flew over was just so much help to keep them all alive. And a gun stood for safety, for once the little settlement had heard far away the terrifying sound of an Indian war whoop, as a band of braves followed the river north; and often in the cold winter nights the wolves and wildcats and lynxes came almost to their doors, as hungry for food as the settlers were themselves.

Once, before his father trusted Nathaniel with a gun, he had gone with his little sister only a stone's throw into the forest, when he saw two gleaming specks of fire blazing from behind a rock. He knew what it meant. A hungry wolf had scented them. "Run," he cried to little Patience, and pushed her away while he put himself between her and the wolf. He had not even a stick to beat the creature off, but he had his wits, sharpened already by experience to think quickly. He ran behind a tree, and as the wolf snapped closer and closer to him, he darted back and forth, always keeping the tree between them. It would have been a losing game for Nathaniel, but suddenly he heard a shot ring out and a bullet went whistling by him. The wolf fell dead. A friendly Indian from a neighboring tribe was passing, and saw, and saved his life. After that, even his mother knew that he was safer with a gun.

His father gave him and the other children daily lessons, but it was the work with his hands that filled most of his days. "Come, Nathaniel," his mother would call, "come, dip the wicks for me in the tallow; it is hot and ready, and we sorely need candles. Mind you waste none, and hang the wicks carefully from the rods to dry."

Or it was, "Nathaniel, go fetch a bit of wood and whittle me a spoon. My big one broke last night right in the midst of my hasty pudding." Or, "Canst build a little stool for thy sister, Nathaniel? The child should have a seat of her own, though it may not be so fine as the high chair with twisted legs I had at home in dear old England. That had on it a carved crown, and how proud I was of it!"

"Indeed, then," said Nathaniel, "Patience shall have one, and with carving on it, too,—even a carved crown, if she likes."

"Ah, yes," said the mother, "do it, Nathaniel, with a crown. That stands for loyalty to our king, though he is so far away."

Nathaniel made a stool of pine wood and carved it with pine branches and a crown,—loyalty in the heart of the forest.

In the spring there was planting of corn and pumpkins, fishing, berrying, building a new schoolhouse, and making canoes. There was no idle moment even for a boy. "But," as people on the frontier said to one another, "a hard day's work makes a soft bed." Nathaniel grew up strong and diligent and skillful with his hands.

Late one winter, strange tales came drifting down from the friendly Indians farther up the river. The wild tribes in the Canada forests, they said, were on the war path, driven far out of their usual trails by hunger, though some said, too, that they were driven by the French to harass the people of the border. Everyone in the settlement was warned to take no risk, but time went on, and nothing was seen or heard of even one stranger-Indian. It was impossible to keep always within bounds, and Nathaniel went to the river one afternoon with his stick and line and hook, bent on getting some trout to vary their continual supper of hasty pudding. Everything was very still; only an occasional jumping fish and himself seemed to be alive in all the black stretches of the forest or on the silver thread of the river.

Then, suddenly, as if he had sprung from the earth, an Indian boy was crouching beside him. He made no sound but sat and looked at Nathaniel, his face as unmoved as the silent, mysterious forest behind them, telling nothing of what he felt. But Nathaniel started forward. From the boy's foot blood was streaming. He had cut it badly, yet he gave it no attention. But Nathaniel dipped his handkerchief in water and bound it up well. The boy neither thanked nor stopped him, but continued his silent gaze while Nathaniel, now as stolid as he was, went back to his fishing.

Suddenly the Indian boy sat erect. A sound! A full minute ahead of Nathaniel he heard it,—the soft beat of feet in the forest. And soon close upon them came thirty Indian braves, crowned with feathers and in their war paint. At sight of Nathaniel they stopped short, questioned the Indian boy sharply, and then took counsel together. Still Nathaniel felt no real fear,—he liked the boy and he had seen many Indians,—not until one of them beckoned, and the boy pulled him to his feet and hurried him on to where, close by, their canoes were lying under the bank.

Then his heart began to beat hard. They were carrying him away, perhaps for the sake of demanding a ransom from the white men, perhaps to add another warrior to the tribe. His wits did not desert him, but what was he to do? The Indian boy was watching him, and as they paddled silently up the river, his eyes never seemed to leave him. To be brave and stolid like him, and show no fear,—what else was there to do? It was many miles from home, far on into the great forest, when they finally lay down in their blankets under the night. Even then there was no chance for escape, for the ears of an Indian never sleep, and the black forest with its wild creatures would have proved but a huge trap meaning sure death. So Nathaniel, tired out, slept.

A touch on his arm awakened him. The first dim light of morning was barely entering the woods, but the Indian boy was beckoning him. The others still slept, or if some looked up, the boy quieted them with a word. He took Nathaniel to the river, jumped in and by a gesture bade him follow, as he swam fast downstream. Happily Nathaniel too was a good swimmer, and with the help of the current they traveled swiftly. At last the Indian climbed out, shook himself like a dog and waited. When Nathaniel came up with him, he pointed on down the river, would not let him land, pointed to his foot, pointed back to the camp, and then shook his head and threw a stone into the river. Plainly he was telling Nathaniel to go. As plain as signs could make it, he was saying "Go! You are safe. I will see to it. Go with an Indian boy's thanks for his foot. I will tell them that like that stone, you are gone, drowned in the river. Go!"

"Oh, bless you!" Nathaniel cried. "Your Great Spirit reward you!" and he swept on downstream like a leaf on the current.

When exhausted with swimming, he got out and ran until his breath was gone; then again he took to the river and floated. All day he traveled so, until at nightfall, spent and hungry, he pushed open the door of his father's house and was welcomed home. "The Lord heareth when I call upon Him," his father gave thanks with one of his favorite texts, and everyone rejoiced with him. Everyone who heard his story told Nathaniel that he had his own courage, too, to thank for his escape, for if he had been a bit less unflinching the Indian boy would not have set him free. "I shall always think a lot of Indians now," Nathaniel said, "for twice I have seen how good they are."