something new. It whetted his appetite for more. He began to want to
know. School became interesting, and he plunged into studies with an
interest and zest that were unflagging. And as he studied, ambitions
awoke. The history of the past, the accomplishments of great men
stirred him. He began to dream of the things to do in the days to
come.

Outside of school hours his time was filled with the ordinary duties
of the farm. In the early spring, the maple sugar was to be made
and there were long, difficult tramps through woods in those misty,
brooding days when the miracle of new life is working in tree and vine
and leaf. Often the very earth seemed hushed as if waiting in awe for
this marvelous change that transforms brown earth and bare tree to a
vision of ethereal, tender green. But his books went with him, and in
the long night watches far in the woods alone, when the pans of sirrup
were boiling, he studied. So enrapt did he become that sometimes the
sugar suffered, and the patience of his father was sorely taxed when
told the tale of inattention.

It was during those long night watches that he learned by heart two
books of Milton's "Paradise Lost," and so firmly were they fixed
in the boyish memory that at this day, Dr. Conwell can repeat them
without a break. Many a time as the shadows lightened and the dim,
misty dawn came stealing through the forest, would the small boy step
outside the rude sugar-house and repeat in that musical, resonant
voice that has since held audiences enthralled, Milton's glorious
"Invocation to the Light." Strange scene--the great shadowy forest,
the distant mist-enfolded hills, the faintly flushing morning sky,
the faint splash of a little mountain stream breaking the brooding
stillness, and the small boy with intent, inspired face pouring out