It was after a camp service that a young man came to the Pilot and asked: "Isn't there any way that I can make my life count? I'm sick of going on this way, Pilot. I'm sledding in the wrong direction. Tonight I'm disgusted, so give me a lift." As a result of the lift he was led to God and encouraged to save his money for future schooling. During the evenings of that winter the young man spent his time in study and when spring came a large part of his earnings were deposited in the bank. The following summer he procured work in the saw mill and books were the companions of his leisure hours. So absorbed did he become in his new purpose that he carried his book to the mill and when the machinery stopped to make repairs out came the book. The proprietor of the mill observed the diligence of the new hand and changed him to the sawdust pile where he could have more time for his books. So absorbed would he become that often he allowed the sawdust to take care of itself. The men called him "the book worm in the sawdust." School followed his winter's work, and now he is a successful civil engineer. In the bunkhouse on the night of his surrender a soul and a life were saved. That sweet old favorite hymn, the favorite of the home and prayer meeting, the source of comfort in the house of mourning, is the favorite in the camps--"Jesus, Lover of My Soul." Those unloved men of the distant places feel the influence of the hymn which speaks of the tender Christ opening his bosom to the outcast as well as the respected. Its plaintive melody appeals to them, and the lonely men of the forest sing it with the spirit of those who long for sympathy and unselfish love. The night before they had sung the old song over and over again. The whole camp had joined in with hearty spirit. After the breakfast was over the men went to the bunkhouse to wait for the word of the "push" ordering them to the morning's labor in the works. While they waited one of the men who possessed a rich tenor voice struck up the hymn, "Jesus lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly." One by one the men joined in the song, and the solo passed into a chorus of one hundred voices. Out through the twilight of the morning the melody rolled, waking the sleeping pines and crossing the frozen streams. The men in the stables, harnessing their horses, heard the song and softly whistled it; the cook, busy with his pots and pans, hummed in unison, and the swearing cookee closed his profane mouth and listened in wonder. Over in the office where the proprietor and others of the higher grade of labor made their quarters, the song caused silent amazement, for it did not seem like the morning hour of the camp, where usually only profane sounds break the stillness.