During my Winter in a large lumber camp of Northern Michigan I found how far life can swing from the ideal republic even in this country. The snow had shut in our little community for the Winter. The majority of our choppers were French Canadians and Swedes, strains of humanity which are completely unlike until whiskey breeds in both a desire to fight and kill. In some way the Canadians had obtained a supply of “white whiskey” (a mixture of grain alcohol and water) at Christmas, and the entire outfit prepared to celebrate gloriously. The boss prepared to follow Grant’s famous plan of campaign. He cut off the enemy’s base of supplies by locking the door of the cook’s shanty and refusing to feed the rioters. This brought the revolution to a head. A crowd of savage men gathered in front of the buildings with their axes, and threatened to cut the doors out and to kill the few of us who were left on guard. After it was all over I was told that the cursing and the threatening of these rum-crazed men was frightful, but as I could not hear a syllable of it I walked up to them, entered the group and talked the situation over with French Charlie, Joe the Devil and the Blue Swede. The rest of my side expected to see me chopped into pieces, but most men who threaten before they act will talk a full dictionary before they kill. These drunken men were so astonished at a deaf man’s disregard of their threats that they were diverted from their anger, and I was able to make terms with them. I probably should not have dared to go near them if I had received the curses and threats direct. Years later a sudden cloudburst in the hills above our farm filled the streams to overflowing. The little river near our home jumped out of its bed and spread over the road—a rushing, roaring, shallow sheet of water. I had to cross that part of the road in order to get my train, and I took a steady horse, with one of the little boys in the buggy with me. At the edge of this overflow we found a group of excited men who were listening to the roaring, and were afraid to venture over. I used my eyes calmly and observed that the bridge was quite sound, and the water was too shallow to be really dangerous. So in I drove with my boy—who was white with terror—while most of the men tried to stop me. The old horse waded calmly and safely, and we crossed without trouble. The water never reached the hub of the wheel! Yet on the other side men stood half paralyzed _because they heard the roaring water_ and stopped to listen. On the other side my boy said, “But you never would have done it _if you could hear that water_!”