Taking a log for a platform, unaided by Bible or hymn book, Mr. Higgins began the service. "Nearer My God to Thee" was the hymn, and the men of the pickpole joined heartily in the song, "Jesus Lover of My Soul;" they sang until it seemed that the sunset joined in the praise and the trees of the field clapped their hands in timely melody. Over the running river the tall pines caught up the music and bowed in reverence, while the echoes answered back, "Oh, Receive My Soul at Last." With what supreme interest the men about the camp-fire listened to the old, old story of Christ who loves the wanderer! The shades of night fell low upon the darkening earth while the preacher spoke of The Light of The World, and the men sat wrapped in thoughts of things they had forgotten or never known. Recollections of the home tree came back to some, and the sweet lullaby of a mother stole into minds long forgetful of home and other days. At the spring of boyhood they drank again, and the counsels of youth came with hallowed sweetness to the men seated in the playing shadows of the dying fire. Faces long strange to tears were furrowed. Wishes were born that later became realities of good. Like a voice from another world came the benediction to the group about the bright glowing embers. From across the stream the echo floated back, and the "amen" of nature came like a mother's tender prayer. On the morrow when the visitors were returning, several of the rivermen went to the preacher and spoke of the pleasure they had derived from the service. "We're away out here in the timber and it ain't often the church comes our way," said one. "If some preacher would come here once in a while, he could give us a lift. The Lord knows we need it," added another. "Can't you come and give us a turn?" they asked. In response to the extended invitations, Mr. Higgins often went to the drive on Kettle River. An appreciative audience was always waiting--an audience that would gladden the heart of any minister who was anxious to deliver God's message. Prior to his visit to Kettle River, Mr. Higgins had never been on the drive. Everything about the work was new to him, but he joined the riverpigs on the stream, and added to their merriment by his unskilled attempts at logdriving. Taking the long pickpole, the preacher mounted the floating log, while every driver looked out of the tail of his eye for the soon-coming moment when "his reverence" would descend to the depths--"so far," said one of the men, "that he would draw down the log with a suction." In the midst of their work the drivers shouted advice and encouragement.