The next day was Sunday.  To the devoutly disposed, there is no silence that seems so deeply hallowed as that which pervades the forest on that holy day.  No steamer plows the river; no screaming, rushing train profanes the stillness; the beasts that prowl, and the birds that fly, seem gentler than on other days; and the wilderness, with its pillars and arches, and aisles, becomes a sanctuary.  Prayers that no ears can hear but those of the Eternal; psalms that win no responses except from the echoes; worship that rises from hearts unencumbered by care, and undistracted by pageantry and dress—­all these are possible in the woods; and the great Being to whom the temples of the world are reared cannot have failed to find, in ten thousand instances, the purest offerings in lonely camps and cabins.

They had a delightful and bountiful breakfast, and, at its close, they divided themselves naturally into a double group.  The two boys and Turk went off by themselves to watch the living things around them, while the men remained together by the camp-fire.

Mr. Balfour drew out a little pocket-Testament, and was soon absorbed in reading.  Jim watched him, as a hungry dog watches a man at his meal, and at last, having grown more and more uneasy, he said: 

“Give us some o’ that, Mr. Balfour.”

Mr. Balfour looked up and smiled, and then read to him the parable of the talents.

“I don’t know nothin’ ’bout it,” said Jim, at the conclusion, “but it seems to me the man was a little rough on the feller with one talent.  ‘Twas a mighty small capital to start with, an’ he didn’t give ’im any chance to try it over; but what bothers me the most is about the man’s trav’lin’ into a fur country.  They hadn’t no chance to talk with ’im about it, and git his notions.  It stan’s to reason that the feller with one talent would think his master was stingy, and be riled over it.”

“You must remember, Jim, that all he needed was to ask for wisdom in order to receive it,” said Mr. Benedict.

“No; the man that traveled into a fur country stan’s for the Almighty, and he’d got out o’ the way.  He’d jest gi’n these fellers his capital, and quit, and left ’em to go it alone.  They couldn’t go arter ’im, and he couldn’t ‘a’ hearn a word they said.  He did what he thought was all right, and didn’t want to be bothered.  I never think about prayin’ till I git into a tight place.  It stan’s to reason that the Lord don’t want people comin’ to him to do things that they can do theirselves.  I shouldn’t pray for breath; I sh’d jest h’ist the winder.  If I wanted a bucket o’ water, I sh’d go for it.  If a man’s got common sense, and a pair o’ hands, he hain’t no business to be botherin’ other folks till he gits into what he can’t git out of.  When he’s squeezed, then in course he’ll squeal.  It seems to me that it makes a sort of a spooney of a man to be always askin’ for what he can git if he tries.  If the feller that only