The winter passed, and what a time Chad and Jack had, snaking logs out of the
mountains with two, four, six--yes, even eight yoke of oxen, when the log was
the heart of a monarch oak or poplar--snaking them to the chute; watching them
roll and whirl and leap like jack-straws from end to end down the steep
incline and, with one last shoot in the air, roll, shaking, quivering, into a
mighty heap on the bank of Kingdom Come. And then the "rafting" of those
logs--dragging them into the pool of the creek, lashing them together with
saplings driven to the logs with wooden pins in auger-holes--wading about,
meanwhile, waist deep in the cold water: and the final lashing of the raft to
a near-by tree with a grape-vine cable--to await the coming of a "tide."

Would that tide never come? It seemed not. The spring ploughing was over, the
corn planted; there had been rain after rain, but gentle rains only. There had
been prayers for rain:

"O Lord," said the circuit-rider, "we do not presume to dictate to Thee, but
we need rain, an' need it mighty bad. We do not presume to dictate, but, if it
pleases Thee, send us, not a gentle sizzle-sizzle, but a sod-soaker, O Lord, a
gullywasher. Give us a tide, O Lord!" Sunrise and sunset, old Joel turned his
eye to the east and the west and shook his head. Tall Tom did the same, and
Dolph and Rube studied the heavens for a sign. The school-master grew visibly
impatient and Chad was in a fever of restless expectancy. The old mother had
made him a suit of clothes -- mountain-clothes -- for the trip. Old Joel gave him
a five-dollar bill for his winter's work. Even Jack seemed to know that
something unusual was on hand and hung closer about the house, for fear he
might be left behind.

Softly at last, one night, came the patter of little feet on the roof and
passed--came again and paused; and then there was a rush and a steady roar
that wakened Chad and thrilled him as he lay listening. It did not last long,