In our white ducks, straw hats, and flannel blouses, we were sufficiently picturesque and distinctive as "honest miners" to be shown off in one of the front pews.
Seated near the prettiest girls, who offered us their hymn books--in the cleanly odor of fresh pine shavings, and ironed muslin, and blown over by the spices of our own woods through the open windows, a deep sense of the abiding peace of Christian communion settled upon us.

At this supreme moment someone murmured in an awe-stricken whisper: "WILL you look at Bones ?" We looked.

Bones had entered the church and gone up in the gallery through a pardonable ignorance and modesty; but, perceiving his mistake, was now calmly walking along the gallery rail before the astounded worshipers.

Reaching the end, he paused for a moment, and carelessly looked down.

It was about fifteen feet to the floor below--the simplest jump in the world for the mountain-bred Bones.