And, on the subject of religion, his feelings became tender and earnest. That ripening for the Reaper, by unearthly culture, sometimes witnessed in children, despite the most unpropitious circumstances, just ere they pass away, was his blessed experience. Deep questions about God and Christ and Heaven he revolved by himself. Questions of duty he was often propounding to the parents' slumbering consciences. His father had been a consistent member of the church, and faithful in family duties years before, but in the absorbing cares of frontier life, and the destitution of religious privileges, becoming backslidden, he had forsaken the family altar, and his conversation was utterly worldly. The son, with shadows of eternity deepening on his pathway, and the Spirit gently leading him, became unhappy in view of the parental shortcomings. With tearful, pleading eyes, he would often say, "Oh, why don't father read the Bible and have prayers as he used to, mother?" And the mother would ponder these things in her heart. One day an elk had been shot some three miles out on the prairie, and a party were going with a wagon to bring it in. Watson Freeman, a companion of Judson's, and two years his senior, was going with the hunters, and Judson asked his mother's permission to accompany him. Contrary to her custom, for she watched over her idol with jealous care, she gave her consent, "scarcely knowing," as she told me, "what she said." The boys, as the team went slowly, soon got out and followed on behind. Excited by the expedition, they noticed not that the horses were gradually leaving them, till a great weariness fell on the more delicate of the two. He complained of being too tired to walk, and his young friend called to the men: "Stop a moment and let Judson get in. He's tired!" "Can't wait," replied the hunter; "if he wants to ride he must run and catch up!" The poor boy tried to rouse himself to hasten, but in vain. His companion, alarmed, entreated the driver to wait, saying, "Do stop, just a moment, Judson's so weak! Do let him get in; he can't run a step; he can scarcely walk!" "Well, let him stay where he is, then!" was the rough answer. "If he's too much of a baby to walk he ought to have staid at home!" And quickly the wagon was out of sight. Meanwhile the cold increased. The sky became overcast. And a snow-squall, such as frequently sweeps the prairies of the northwest in late autumn, set in. The blinding flakes were whirled about with the fury peculiar to the storm where the wind, unobstructed, gathers mightiest force, and the enfeebled boy felt a deathly chill striking to his vitals, and said, "O Watson, I'm freezing to death!"