They were pleasant, never-to-be-forgotten nights,—those trips down the river. To the dull, rhythmic knock of oars in creaky oarlocks, and the drip of warm water as we disturbed the far-flung expanse of fallen stars, we talked of many things. Our elders might have smiled if they had heard. But then, if our elders could have heard, we would never have given those long, long thoughts expression. One sultry sunset we had gone down the river and were opposite Haskell’s clearing on our return, when Nathan, who was lying along the boat’s bottom, with arms behind his head, remarked in his slow, meditative way: “Billy—did you ever wonder about the stars?” “Not especially. What about the stars?” I asked. “Did you ever imagine you were God, away above all the suns and worlds, looking down now and then at the earth? It would be an awful small place, the earth now, wouldn’t it?” “I suppose it would,” I agreed. The boy was silent for several minutes. Then he continued: “If some of those stars are suns—like I read in a book a while back—and each sun has its worlds revolving about it too, the earth’s only an awful small speck in a great big space, isn’t it, Billy? It can’t be anything else!” “Well, and what if it is?” “If the earth’s only an awful small speck in a great big space, think how much smaller we livin’ people must show up—down here on it. I don’t mean in size, Billy, I mean importance. Well, then, if you were God, away off up in the heavens, what would one little earth like this amount to, anyhow? Still less, what would any one person or persons amount to—you and me, for instance? If you or I wanted to go to the devil, be just as bad as we pleased, do anything we wanted, what really big difference would it make? Do you know, Billy, I don’t believe God gives any single person half so much attention, or cares half so much what becomes of him, as a lot of grown folks try to make out. It’s just conceit. That’s the word, Billy; conceit! Men like my father, for instance! They get the idea that God’s a whole lot like themselves. They think he’s got the time and patience to go sneakin’ around watching for folks doing things they’ve been told not to do. But somehow, when I lie out in a boat like this and think about the stars, I sort of see things different. Myself, for instance. And the minute I go back home and listen to Pa, I get my proportion all twisted. My sins are all big and important again.” “But the Bible says the hairs of our heads have all got numbers on ’em,” I defended. “And no one goes out and shoots an English sparrow but what God sees it when it starts kicking.”