ol. Among the peaks and valleys of that
forest-clad kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walks
from his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast were known
to him; every season of the year brought him its own tribute; the woods
were his domain, vast, inexhaustible, free.

Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his own hands. The
roof was tight, the walls were well chinked with moss. It was snug and
warm. But small--how pitifully small it looked to-day--and how lonely!

His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against it leaned the axe.
He caught it up and began to split wood for the stove. "No!" he cried,
throwing down the axe, "I'm tired of this. It has lasted long enough.
I'm going out to make my way in the world."

A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gear and
bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a ghostlike wreath of
blue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke stood, in his snowshoes, on the
white surface of the River of the Way Out. He turned to look back for a
moment, and waved his hand.

"Good-bye, old cabin! Good-bye, the rivers! Good-bye, the woods!"

II

The House on the Main Street

All the good houses in Scroll-Saw City were different, in the number
and shape of the curious pinnacles that rose from their roofs and in
the trimmings of their verandas. Yet they were all alike, too, in their
general expression of putting their best foot foremost and feeling quite
sure that they made a brave show. They had lace curtains in their front
parlour windows, and outside of the curtains were large red and yellow
pots of artificial flowers and indestructible palms and vulcanised
rubber-plants. It was a gay sight.

But by far the bravest of these houses was the residence of Mr. Matthew
Wilson, the principal merchant of Scroll-Saw City. It stood on a corner
of Main Street, glancing slyly out of the tail of one eye, side-ways
down the street, toward the shop and the business, but keeping a bold,
complacent front toward the street-cars and the smaller houses across
the way. It might well be satisfied with itself, for it had three more
pinnacles than any of its neighbours, and the work of the scroll-saw was
looped and festooned all around the eaves and porticoes and bay-windows
in amazing richness. Moreover, in the front yard were cast-iron images
painted white: a stag reposing on a door-mat; Diana properly dressed
and returning from the chase