FILLING THE WATER-TANK—THE STREET SPRINKLER OF THE FOREST
FILLING THE WATER-TANK—THE STREET SPRINKLER OF THE FOREST
A brief description of the camps and of the camp life will add to the interest of the reader who is unacquainted with the logging industry.
When a lumber company contemplates logging in a given locality, a cruiser is sent through the forest to estimate the amount of lumber it will cut. After the report of the cruiser has been received, a crew of experienced woodsmen follows, and selects the place for the camp or camps, and lays out the logging roads. This latter is not an easy task, although to the inexperienced it seems to be, for the road must be as nearly level as the possibilities of the land will allow. A hill to be surmounted means a reducing of the size of the load and an increase in the cost of hauling; a grade scarcely enough to be noticed in ordinary traffic also adds danger and uncertainty tothe haul. If there is a grade, its descent must be towards the landing, hence the need of skilled road-makers. It is in the early fall of the year that these logging roads are made. Trees are felled, every stump is removed and the little hills are leveled until there appears in the forest a broad, level, often winding avenue that suggests a city speedway. When the cold binding wind of the north has frozen hill and glen and the swamp lands have become resistant to the tread, the rut cutter is sent over the newly made roads. This heavy, unsightly piece of mechanism cuts a deep groove or rut in each side of the road. Later these ruts are partly filled with water and in the icy track the great runners of the heavy logging sleds travel with ease and safety. The logging sleds are huge affairs. The runners are eight feet long. The weight of the sled with its chains is about thirty-five hundred pounds—a good load in itself under normal conditions. On these sleds the logs are hauled to the landing, and from there pass by stream or rail to the distant sawmills.
The camp is generally placed near thecenter of the land or on an elevation convenient to water. The buildings of the camp consist of a cookshed made large enough for cooking and dining-room purposes, a bunkhouse to house the men, a blacksmith shop, barns and office. All these are built of logs chinked with clay, and are quite warm, if properly constructed.
A view of the interior of the cookshed is always interesting and visitors to the camp are apt to journey in that direction first of all, not simply because of appetite, but to satisfy their curiosity relative to the comforts of the crew. At one end of the room stands a large stove. The walls of the place resemble the interior of a country store, where all for man or beast is offered to the buyer. The rest of the space is reserved for the dining-room, and the tables present the appearance of a sea of oilcloth. The table dishes are of tin, but in a few camps enamelware has very acceptably been introduced. Substantial iron knives and forks, and unsubstantial tin spoons are instruments of adornment and utility. The condiments or relishes are in boxes of large capacity or in bottles that once did duty for a favoritebrand of whisky or a much-lauded patent medicine. Often the labels remain on the bottles and the visitor is uncertain as to the sociability of the place or its unhealthfulness, and if not enlightened by the knowing ones he is apt to go without the desired vinegar or catsup—unless he is so constituted as to be ever on the lookout for a chance "to wet his whistle."
The interior is substantial in appearance, but not altogether conducive to good appetite. "We use oleomargarine all the time," says a large placard adorning the walls, and the writer has never doubted the statement; in fact, he is willing to make an affidavit that it was used in every camp he visited, or at least a substitute whose dissembling he was willing to believe.
SAID TO BE THE LARGEST LOAD OF LOGS EVER HAULED OUT OF A CAMP, 31.480 FEET
SAID TO BE THE LARGEST LOAD OF LOGS EVER HAULED OUT OF A CAMP, 31.480 FEET
"No talking at the tables" is conspicuous in some camps, and this is probably a wise precaution for it saves time, keeps the men from quarreling, and in case the food is not up to the standard the grumbler is silent until after he has left the table. But the food is generally better than the outsider would expect. It is strong, substantial, abundant, and of good quality, to which is added variety. The fastidious would hardly be satisfied with the service, but it is not intended for the fastidious. He who labors in the pine-laden air is not likely to quarrel with the service if the quality is right and the quantity abundant. Beef, pork, potatoes, beans, peas and other seasonable vegetables form the bill of fare of the camps.
The bunkhouses are large and roomy. On the long sides of the building double-decked bunks are built with the ends toward the center of the room, "muzzle-loaders," the boys call them. Owing to the unsanitary conditions, it does not take long to generate a goodly number of "company," to use the name by which the woodsmen designate the vermin. Fortunately, some of the camps are better kept and the men escape this additional irritation. A large cylindrical wood-stove is installed in the center of the room, and above it is built a rack for drying the clothes of the men. Since every lumberjack wears several pairs of socks to keep out the cold, this rack in the evening holds several hundred pairs. In the heat of the place the drying socks begin to blossom, and it has been noticed by others than botaniststhat roses and socks do not produce a like aroma. Few of the bunkhouses have any tables. Water and tin basins are near the door for the use of those acquainted with the custom of bathing.
In the office where the clerk, the bosses, scalers and others of more pretentious occupation sleep, one corner is set apart for the wannigan, as the small camp store is called. Here the workers buy clothing, shoes, tobacco and the few articles needed in the camp. The stock is not extensive, but the price of the articles is far reaching. One of the clerks said, "I have charge of the wannigan—the first graft of the lumberjack."
Where once the timid deer cropped the tender herbage, the rough camps of the lumbermen are seen. Before the mighty swing of the keen blades the solitudes are passing away. In Minnesota, two billion board feet of lumber represent the cut of the winter months, and in the camps and mills almost forty thousand men are employed. Logging is an extensive industry, and it has been brought to a high degree of efficiency in Minnesota.
Every day the tote teams pass between the camps and the village carrying provisions for man and beast. These teams are the means of communication between the foresters and civilization.
Where there are several camps owned by the same company, the most important personage is the representative of the company who is known among the men as the "walking boss," because he is always passing from camp to camp, seeing to the interests of the firm. The "walking boss" gives his orders to the subordinate boss who has charge of an individual camp. This subordinate is known as the "push." Under the "push" is another who goes by the name of the "straw push." The camps have their own nomenclature, and some of the names are interesting and humorous. The carpenter is the "wood butcher;" the clerk is the "ink splasher," or the "bloat that makes the stroke;" the man who tends the logging roads and keeps them free from anything that would interfere with the heavy sleds is called the "road monkey;" the workman who keeps the fires in the bunkhouse and does odd jobs around the camp goes by thetitle of "bull cook," because, in the old days when oxen were used his duty was to see to their comfort; the missionary is known as the "sky pilot," and the top-loader is called the "sky hooker." Besides these named there are the cook and cookees, skidders, teamsters, sawyers, swampers, the barn boss and the blacksmith.
"In the works" where the trees are felled, the men work in crews. The sawyers bring the giants to the earth and the swampers clear the trunk of its branches and make the openings through which the logs are drawn to the skidways. After the tree has fallen, a man called the "punk hunter" examines it to see if it be sound and marks the dimensions into which the log is to be sawn.
The loads hauled from the skidways to the landings average differently in the camps, owing to the condition of the roads. Where the roads are the best the amount drawn by two or four horses is almost incredible. In 1905 a load of logs was hauled into Tenstrike, Minnesota, which scaled over twenty thousand feet. One of the camps situated near Shell Lake, Wisconsin, is said to have hauled the largest load oflogs ever drawn out of a camp by four horses. The load contained thirty-one thousand four hundred and eighty feet. A thousand feet in the green log, with its attendant slabs and bark, will weigh nearly eight thousand pounds. The above figures will give some idea of the great weight of the loads, and also of the perfection to which the road-making must be carried to make such results possible.
Into these camps with the coming of winter the lumberjacks crowd. "Why is it that they are willing to go into isolation and hardship?" you ask. We can only answer, "Why does the sailor go down to the sea in ships?" It seems to get into the blood. Douglas Malloch, in "The Calling of the Pine," says:
"When I listen to the callin' of the pine,When I drink the brimmin' cup of forest wine—Then the path of life is sweet to my travel-weary feetWhen I listen to the callin' of the pine."
"When I listen to the callin' of the pine,When I drink the brimmin' cup of forest wine—Then the path of life is sweet to my travel-weary feetWhen I listen to the callin' of the pine."
There are lots of men who have followed the camps from boyhood. I met one manwho had spent forty-four winters in the woods and his brother almost as many. It had become a second nature to them and the lure of the camps was irresistible.
In the towns and villages adjacent to the camps the lumberjacks are seen at their worst because civilization only welcomes them to its vices; in the camps the woodsmen are seen at their best because the causes of their depravity are absent. These big, hearty fellows may be strong in vices, but they are by no means lacking in virtues. They have their code of honor, and the man who departs from it will find it necessary to depart from the camp. Depraved as are most of them, yet in many ways they command the respect of the men who are acquainted with their better natures.
The old lumberjack will not tolerate the least word of slander against a good woman. If she is entitled to his respect she is entitled to his defense. He may be steeped in vice himself, but he esteems those whose lives are clean, and a good woman appeals to his chivalry. A woman is as safe in the camps as in her own home; her purity is her protection and his respect goes out toher. The Sisters of Charity go through the camps soliciting for the hospitals and schools. Between the camps they are often miles from any habitation and when night overtakes them they sleep in the camps. I have never heard of one of them being molested in these lonely trips, and among the rough, profane foresters they are as safe as behind the carefully locked doors of the convent. The lumberjack who would molest one of them, or any good woman, would probably not leave the camp alive. Shielded by her womanhood, she is safe even among the men who are foreign to restraint.
On one occasion a camp foreman with his wife entered the caboose of a logging train. In the car a number of men were drinking. The bottle was passed around and all drank, the foreman included. As the bottle went the rounds it was offered to the foreman's wife, but scarcely had the bottle been extended to her when the husband floored the donor with his fist and proceeded to kick him out of the car. He was not going to allow any man to treat his wife as a woman of the street.
In the settling of disputes, nature's weapons are the sole instruments used. The fistis the arbiter, although the boot is sometimes called into exercise. The gloves and wrestling help to pass many lonely hours, but sometimes these friendly bouts generate a battle in which hate is the ruling passion. Fights due to personal animosity are to be expected where men are free from the restraints of civilization. In one of the camps an ex-convict worked and for some unknown reason made life unbearable to a pleasant, easy-going Irishman. The ex-convict was ever trying for a fight, but the Irishman's blood was more sluggish than that of the average son of Erin. At last the attacks were more than the peace-loving fellow could stand. (How does the proverb read? "Beware of the wrath of the silent man.") He went to his bunk and put on his spike boots and rushed out to meet the ex-convict. With a blow of his fist he floored the former prisoner and, beside himself with rage, kicked him until the body of his tormentor was a bloody jelly. Had not the loggers interfered the ex-convict would have been murdered. The wounded man was taken to the hospital, where he remained for several weeks, and on recovering he leftfor other parts, to the satisfaction of all concerned.
Though the labor is hard and the hours long, for the men are at work when the sun appears and it is dark when they leave the works, yet there is a constant variety in their lives. It takes little to amuse them, and less to make them "jump their jobs." The lumberjack is not apt to complain when things go wrong, but rather to walk into the office and demand his wages, after which he will proceed to another camp. Sometimes a whole camp will suddenly leave because of some imposition or provocation that may in itself seem slight. One of the men last winter "took the cake" in this. He went into the cookshed for his breakfast, but being a little late found that the pancake dough was all gone and there were no cakes for him. He immediately went to the clerk and demanded his wages. Here is another case:
Something had gone wrong and Jack Olson was ready to leave the camp. He proceeded to the office and demanded the amount due him, but the clerk was a surly bully and in reply tossed the little Norwegian out of the office. Against such physicaltactics Olson felt he could do nothing, so he sat around the bunkhouse until his bunkmate returned from the works.
"The bloat wouldn't give you your stake, hey?" said bunky.
"And he kicked me out of the office," added Olson.
Bunky was interested, very interested. His eyes twinkled as he thought of the splendid opening the action of the clerk had given him for a little added excitement.
"Come on, John, old boy," he said, affectionately taking Olson by the waist and leading him to the office. "Come on and watch the free show while the bloat makes out your check and mine."
Arriving at the office, bunky entered it with a jar.
"Sit down there, John, in that reserved seat while I raise the curtain and turn on the red fire."
Stepping close to the clerk, Olson's husky bunkmate shook his monstrous fist under the nose of the astonished time-keeper, and said:
"Are you the guy that splashes ink? Then sprinkle out my walk and do it infernallyquick. Sprinkle out Olson's, too, and if you don't hurry this little shack will look like Hades upset. Splash the ink blank lively or I'll make a blotter out of you."
Without a word the "guy that splashes ink" began his work and the walks were sprinkled out in record time. Bunky and Olson left the office with the air of victorious generals and traveled to the nearest town to blow in the stake in fitting celebration.
Card playing is a great time killer in some of the camps and when the towns are not accessible the woodsmen often spend the whole of the Sabbath playing with the greasy cardboards. Some of the proprietors do not allow card playing and they say the prohibition has caused a more peaceful state. Since the Logging Camp Mission now distributes large quantities of literature a number of the workmen spend their spare moments in reading.
Many of them will discuss spiritual matters, and in language that is shockingly contrasted with the subject, for so habituated are they to profanity that it does not appear to the speaker as in the least incongruous.
After one of the meetings it was discovered that Mr. Higgins had left a hymn book. The forgotten book fell into the hands of a lumberjack who could read music and who possessed a good voice. The following evening he began to sing the hymns and the camp gathered to listen.
"That's a d—n fine song," said the singer enthusiastically, "the show don't reach it, not by a Hades of a sight."
He sang another and remarked on closing, for the sentiment of the song appealed to him:
"How the devil do they think of such fine things? It's the prettiest little son of (the nameless) that I ever heard." This was said admiringly, and with the intention of expressing appreciation, but the habit of the man was profane and he knew not how to express his feelings unless with verbal gestures.
Profanity is so common to some of them that they seem to swear with every breath they draw. An old-timer told the writer of an incident he had witnessed. They were loading cars with a steam jammer. The sky-hooker, or top-loader, who was exceptionallyprofane, was at his post on the top of the car. One of the logs did not come up in the way that suited him and he broke into a stream of profanity that startled even the lumberjacks. The sky-hooker ended his profanity with a direct appeal to all the Persons of the God-head—a most unspeakable oath.
"It was the most blasphemous sentence I ever heard," said the old-timer, "and we stood around startled." Less than ten minutes afterwards the hook broke, and an enormous log weighing several tons crushed the body of the hooker to pulp. "The Father had answered," reverently remarked the woodsman. "I used to swear in those days but I never have since."
If you wish to meet generous-hearted fellows, visit the logging camps. Anyone who has dealings with the lumberjacks will testify to the truth of the above statement. The typical lumberjack is large-hearted, touched with generous impulse and responsive in his desire to ameliorate suffering. Often he will impoverish himself to give to the causes that help humanity. Money is of little value to him; it only represents thepower of producing a short-lived pleasure, and he is therefore willing to share with others that they may be happy. As the following incidents will illustrate:
One of the men had taken his family to the camp and built a little shack in which to house them during the winter. Mr. Higgins had held services in the camp, and the logger requested him to baptize their baby when he next visited them. Happening to be in the city shortly afterwards the missionary mentioned the fact of the coming baptism and the ladies of the church in which he was speaking thought they would contribute to the happiness of the occasion by sending the baby a bundle of clothing. The missionary presented the package after the baptismal service was concluded and the parents hastened to view the contents.
A crowd of campmen had been invited to witness the christening of "our kid," as they called the baby, and when they saw that the articles sent to the child were second-hand garments their wrath kindled. "Our kid" was insulted and every man resented it.
"We're no paupers," they cried. "What do the city folks mean by insulting the kid with duds like these?"
"That kid has got to have the best glad rags. No make-overs for him."
A collection was immediately taken, and every generous soul cast in his two bits so that the kid of the camp could hold up his head.
B—— R—— was taken sick and had to leave the camp. For a year disease held him in its grip. He was a man of family, having a wife and seven children who were dependent on his labors. Death visited the home and took one of the children, adding to the financial burden. The news of the family's needs came to Wilson Bros.' Camps 2 and 3, and immediately ninety dollars was raised and sent to Mr. R—— to help him along. The boys were willing to respond and gave gladly.
Many a poor fellow has found true charity among these men, for their hearts are large and given to generosity. The dead lumberjack does not find a corner in the potter's field, the boys see that he is decently interred; the sick do not often fall on the community, for they are helped by their fellows. Say what you will about the lumberjack, but put the grace of charity to his credit, and let it cover a multitude of sins.
There is little chance for personal cleanliness in the camps. No facilities are there for bathing unless one is willing to do so in the presence of the whole camp; the clothing is often worn much longer than is conducive to health, and many of the things we consider so essential are missing, yet few of the men are affected with sickness. Unsanitary are the surroundings, but the hours in the pure air and the hard, active lives of the workers seem to counteract the disease-breeding conditions. Most of the cases that go to the hospitals are due to accidents rather than to disease. Accidents are all too common in the camps. Felling the large trees is never without hazard and the loading of the logs is more dangerous still. The heavy hauling adds an element of uncertainty, particularly where there are grades to be run on the way to the landing. It requires skill to let a load down the grade. This is done by means of sand or hay being placed in the ruts so that the runners of the sled are retarded in the descent, but if the load be checked suddenly it will cause the logs to shift, endangering the life of man and beast.
From what has been written in the foregoing chapters we do not desire to convey the impression that all the campmen are depraved and sunken in vice. There are all kinds and conditions of men among them. Many of them have been well educated, have come from homes of refinement and ease, but through adversity have gone to lower plains of life. Others have followed the woods from youth and feel that they are not fitted for any other class of labor, yet amidst surroundings that tempt to viciousness they have kept their moral virtues with scrupulous care.
The campmen are a neglected class of men. No one has in past years tried to touch them with the elevating power of good. They are what they are because their labors have isolated them from civilization and its agencies for good, while the vices of the provinces have followed them because there were dollars to be gained. The railway men of a few years ago were almost in the same condition as the lumberjacks of today. The saving power to the railroader was the restraint that their homes cast about them, and through their homes the gospeland other adjuncts of civilization were possible, but these are men who are separated from their homes or unblessed with home ties. When Christian indifference was supplanted with Christian activity a change was soon noted among the workers on the railroad and they became a respectable class of men, of whom the nation is justly proud.Y. M. C. A.swere established for their benefit, missions were opened where they congregated, the church held out its hand in welcome, and under the stimulus of gospel encouragement they arose. But what has been done for the lumberjack? Almost nothing. In the camps he works through the dreary, cruel winter, and when he returns to civilization in the spring only the hand of the depraved is extended in welcome.
INTERIOR OF BUNK-HOUSE
INTERIOR OF BUNK-HOUSE
"The woods were God's first temples." I cannot pass through the pineries, beholding the long fingers of cooling green pointing to the eternal blue, without feeling an exaltation of spirit, a desire to praise the Creator. The shrub and towering tree, the aisles of the woods and the sweet soothing comfort of the silence all conduce to prayer and adoration. No temple is more suggestive of worship than that whose dome is of sheltering leaves and whose columns are living, graceful trees. But the camps are the destroyers of the primitive temples, and their denizens are not suggestive of devoutness; yet in the rude hewn shacks of the lumberjacks nature is heard speaking and her voice is persuasively calling to worship. In the gray of dawn her call is clear and sweet, and as the loggers tighten their heavy belts and view the new-born day she whispers,"Praise." In the busy noon day, amidst the bruised and broken tops, the playing winds repeat the echo of the morning, "Praise." Then when the hush of evening falls o'er the dying day and the purple of the west shows through the crown of richest green, the evening shadows take up the chorus, "Praise him for his goodness, for his love to the children of men."
On visiting a camp for the first time Frank Higgins is apt to inquire, "Ever had any preachers up this way?"
"No. Nobody cares whether we make the landing in Hades or not," is likely to be the answer.
"Preachers are only after the stake," said one. "They don't care for us poor devils. Heaven was made for the rich, and not for us lumberjacks. We're only welcome down the slide."
"Well, here is one who isn't after the stake," replied the minister, "and his interest is in the lumberjack."
"Where is the guy? I'd like to meet him," remarked the woodsman, evidently thinking such a preacher must be an unknown variety.
"I'm the fellow," returned the missionary, "and I'll prove it by preaching in the bunkhouse tonight. What time will suit? 7:30, you say? Well, let all the boys know and come prepared to sing. That's your part of the service."
The Rev. Frank Higgins has not much suggestion of "the cloth" about him. If you met him on the logging road there is nothing in his dress to stamp him as a minister, but everything to proclaim him a lumberjack. His dress is that of his parishioners, mackinaw jacket, belt, boots, socks and cap suggest the logger. His physical appearance is in keeping with the camp; he is broad-shouldered and built for endurance. He is not a tall man, being but five feet nine or ten, but his weight is two hundred pounds of muscle. He does not look the preacher, but ask the lumberjacks about it and they will tell you "there is no other."
The supper is over and the men have crowded into the bunkhouse where the meeting is to be held. What an audience! It is cosmopolitan; the ends of the earth have contributed, except the far east. All classes and conditions are in the group, evidencesof the best and worst, but on all of them the stamp of isolation—they are far from the accustomed haunts of men, and everything proclaims it. Sixty to one hundred and sixty men are in the log shack. The benches at the end of the bunks are filled with waiting men, the bunks above contain many who are lounging in attitudes of individual fancy. No straight, erect or formal audience is this; it is as free as the forest air, as informal as Eden, but not so cleanly. The congregation is coatless, collarless, often bootless, for probably half of them are in their stocking feet, while the temporarily discarded boots are heaped around the huge stove to dry. Pipes send forth long streams of smoke, and in various parts of the room card games are in progress. Extra lanterns hang around the shack, sending out a dim uncertain light that only partly dissipates the gloom of the interior. The cylindrical stove contains the crackling logs and the emitted warmth is the only note of cheer. The rank odor of cheap tobacco mingles with the nauseating aroma of the myriad socks hung above the stove and the poorly ventilated place is stifling, oppressiveand depressing. Everything is unsuggestive of the sanctuary, but the Father of men meets with his children in the heavy smelling bunkhouse the same as in the bright, costly cathedral.
Behind the upturned barrel, whose altar cloth is a coarse horse blanket, stands the preacher. No Genevan gown lends its grace to his figure, but coatless he stands, an earnest man, physically fearless, powerful in the love for God and man. The hymnbooks have been passed around, some familiar hymn is announced and the command to sing is given. Not such music as kisses the ear of the worshiper in the fashionable churches, where the trained voices blend in superb harmony, is the music in the camps. It lacks in sweetness, but is not deficient in volume and heartiness.
Scripture is read, or rather recited, for it is nearly impossible to read in the dim light emitted by the lanterns, then the Sky Pilot tells what the gospel can do for the loggers and what the Christ can accomplish in them. He speaks plainly of their wasted lives, the folly of spending their money in the saloons, in gambling dens, in brothels, andpoints them to Christ, who can keep a man from all that links him to the pit.
Do the men listen to the story of the Savior? Yes, with an interest that can only come from soul-starved men. They have been feeding on the husks, have known the companionship of swine in the form of men and vampires who resembled women, have wanted love and found only vice; so they listen gladly to the news of another life, another world, another love that is clean and pure. Their dreams have been of heaven, but their lives have been lived in hell, and the Sky Pilot's story seems to make the dream attainable.
I well remember a sermon he preached on the Prodigal Son, but the environment must be present if one is to reproduce the sermon. It was well suited to the audience, plain, too plain for a city audience, but an unmistakable message for the men of the forest. Figures of speech had little place in it; of poetry there was little except the poetry of direct simplicity; it was unadorned Anglo-Saxon with the crash and clang of the language in its strength, but it was a story full of love, hope and cheer that appealedto the hundred men who breathlessly listened while the wind of winter beat the drifting snow against the camp.
Here are some extracts given wholly from memory:
"One of the boys stayed at home and one left the old homestead. Now it wasn't the fellow that stayed at home that the father was worrying about, but the fellow that packed his "turkey" and went out to blow his stake. You lumberjacks are in that youngster's place and the old folks are wondering where you are and what you are doing. Because a man leaves home it isn't necessary to be a prodigal, but his chances to make a fool of himself are better if he is away from the old home and its memories."
Then came the story of his own home-leaving and how the mother watched him until the turn in the road hid him from view.
"That mother's prayers have followed me through life. My story is yours with the names changed. Some one wants to hear that you still live. Write a letter tonight.
"Because the fellow had money he found friends, but there never was a friend worthhaving who was made or bought through money. This young fellow in the parable reminds me of the lumberjack coming down the river in the spring and landing in one of the logging towns. Men who have never heard of him become his friends at once; the barkers of the dens wait at the train to give him the glad hand; he has friends galore and is the most popular man that enters the town—he has money. Then they bleed him to a finish, as they did the prodigal in the Bible. There are men in these towns who have your wages figured up already and they smile and chuckle as they toast their shins at the base burner, thinking what a good time they will have with your money when you come down in the spring. Don't think you are working for yourselves; the saloonmen and their crowd are the ones who cash your checks and bank your coin. Some of the men in the saloon business that came to these parts when I did and were as poor as I am, are now living in the finest houses in the north and eat the best the land affords. The wives of these men are dressed in silks, and their hands and necks glisten with the jewels you bought with your winter'slabor—but you still wear the coarse socks and haven't a cent in the bank. Now, men, were you ever invited into the homes you built for the saloonmen, gamblers and brothel keepers? Were you ever given an introduction to the wives whom you dressed in silks and jewels? No, and you never will be. They don't want you; they are after your cash. That's how they treated the prodigal of old; that's how they treat the prodigal lumberjack of today.
"Well, after awhile the prodigal was broke and he asked his friends for a lift, but his friends weren't in the lifting business. It was their business to help him to spend, but not to spend for him. Do you remember when you had spent all at the bar, the wheel, or the brothel, how you asked a loan for a lodging of the man in whose till your winter's earnings rested, and he gave you a hunch to go up river and earn more? Well, the prodigal was in the same boat, for they said to him as they said to you, 'Go up the river, old man. It's the husks and the hogs for you now.'
"But when the men who rob and spoil will not give you a hand, the Father will.In the father's home was the only place the prodigal found a hearty reception, and in the Lord Jesus Christ you will find a welcome."
Then came the gospel message with its cheer and loving hope, the story of how God gave Christ to die that the prodigal might have light and love, and how through him the homestead opens, where love undefiled and almighty help is given unstintedly.
It was a homely sermon, a plain message, a description of life they too well understood because they had too often experienced it. Many a head was bowed in shame as the story of the prodigal's life was told, for the listeners knew it was a tale, not of the times of Christ, but taken from their own lives. When the preacher spoke of the loving Father who warmly welcomes the wanderers there was expectancy in the faces of the auditors.
It was after Mr. Higgins had preached this sermon on a former occasion that a young man came to him for a private conversation. The sermon had awakened a longing for a better life in which real love was to take the place of shame. He hadbeen carried back to the old home, and heard the mother praying for the absent boy.
"Pilot," he said, "I want to pray for myself. Tell me how and I'll do it."
"Come on, my boy," said the Pilot, "and under the pines we'll pray together."
Out under the tall sentinels they went, and there on the frozen snow they knelt while the prayers of the minister and the lumberjack ascended to the ever-approachable throne.
The next day the lad wrote home to his old mother in Quebec, telling her of his hope in Christ and his new relation to God. She had not heard from him in months, and now the news he sent made her join in the raptures of the angel chorus. Immediately she wrote a letter of gratitude to Mr. Higgins and when the missionary read, "For this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found," he saw a new figure in the parable—it was the prodigal's mother.
After the meeting is over and the shack is lighted only by the stray gleams that steal through the chinks of the stove, some of the men will continue to talk to the minister oftheir far-off homes and the loved ones they have not seen for years. The years are reviewed and there is a wish that life were different. By the burning fires of the bunkhouse many a long closed heart has been opened and many a life surrendered to God.
Sometimes a man will come to Mr. Higgins after the services and invite the missionary to sleep with him in the bunkhouse. Since the missionaries are generously accorded the privileges of the office by almost all of the proprietors, the invitation of the lumberjack is one that holds in itself no allurement. The bunks in the sleeping quarters of the men are often filled with small annoyances that are fruitful and multiply and disturb the occupants of the bunks. But when such an invitation is given the missionary seldom refuses it. He knows that the man who gives it means more than to share the discomforts of his lodging—he wishes to get near the messenger so that in the darkness and quiet he can secure spiritual aid. In the bunks men have been helped over difficulties and have freely surrendered themselves to the Divine Son. There may be distasteful things to encounter,but the chance to help a man is worth more than the sacrifice of comfort.
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 passedinto 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.
"Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee," sang the men. "Leave, ah, leave me not alone," and it came from the hearts of men who knew the weight of lonely weeks and months. The Sky Pilot in the office turned his face to the wall and prayed while they sang.
"All out," cried the "push," and from the bunkhouse streamed the men, singing the song of comfort. Into groups they separated, each going his appointed way, but the song still continued in all parts of the forest,until the sweet melody of the hymn died to tender murmurs and was lost in the distant evergreens. In all that north state no happier body of men went forth to toil, for with them went the spirit of the song.
Sometimes disturbances mar the meetings. But they are not as frequent as in the early days, when it was considered the proper thing in some camps to create a row. The earnestness of the man and the strength of his body has gained respect for this teacher of righteousness. The work, also, is better understood and a realization of the value of missionary effort has brought about a change in sentiment. When Mr. Higgins first began his work he used a little muscular Christianity as well as persuasion in regulating the deportment of the men during the services; now he has learned a better way. The Frenchman who undertook to create a rough house, and suddenly found himself standing on his head in a barrel of water, having been put there by the Rev. Frank Higgins, will not feel like disturbing one of his services again. The persuasion of a man who can physically take care of a religious gathering is a great incentive toundisturbed worship, even though the meeting be held in the forest.
The day after the meeting is the time for personal work, for hand-picked fruit, for heart-to-heart conversations. While the service is in progress the quick eye of the evangelist singles out those who are most receptive to the word of life, and on the morrow he goes to assist by private word the work done in the public meeting. From the clerk he finds where they are working in the forest and goes to join them in their labors. Here is where the finely developed body comes into play for the King. One of the secrets of aiding workingmen is to understand their labors; they admire the man who is capable in their individual line, and Frank Higgins is a woodsman who knows how to swing the ax and pull the saw. While working with them he talks of Christ and tries to draw the worker to him.
In the bunkhouse, during one of the services, an old man sat in his bunk with his little nondescript dog in his lap. Loneliness was written on his deep-lined face; while the others sang he was silent.
"Don't you sing?" asked the missionary, handing him a book.
"None of your blank business," gruffly mumbled the old man.
All through the service the old fellow was silent, seemingly hearing no word of the sermon. The next day the missionary went to the "ink splasher" and inquired where the old man could be found.
"That's Old Grouchy. He's the road monkey and you'll find him on the east road about this time of day," directed the clerk.
"Good morning," was the greeting of the missionary as he came up to the road monkey.
"Mornin'," answered Old Grouchy, in non-committal tones.
"Your roads are in fine shape, almost perfect," said the missionary, sparring for an opening.
"Bad, infernally bad," answered the road monkey.
"Like the job?" asked the preacher to encourage conversation.
"Yes, the way the damned like their lodgings," burst out Old Grouchy. "Butwhat is it to you whether I like it or not? You can't change it."
Before the preacher could make reply the little dog came out of the woods, where he had been in pursuit of a pine squirrel, and came to the minister for attention. It was a dog of many breeds, but the road monkey's eyes fell upon it lovingly and the minister saw the look.
"A good friend of yours, I suppose," said the Sky Pilot.
"The only friend I have," and the tone was soft and reflective.
The minister knew that he had found the opening to the old man's heart and began to talk of his own dog team, the faithfulness and intelligence of the animals and the companionship they freely gave. Old Grouchy joined in the conversation and discussed with freedom the love he felt for the dumb creatures. From this they drifted to matters more personal until the whole story of the man's life was narrated and the cause of his cynicism was bared.
It was a story of startling disappointment, of a home wrecked through unfaithfulness and broken trust. No man could hear the story and remain unsympathetic.
"No wonder you see the world darkened," said the preacher; "if I had your experience I might feel as you do today."
The missionary talked to the man and tried to lead him to the bright paths of peace, but nothing appealed to the sad soul of the lonely man. The gospel gave him no hope, the sun was set, and all was covered with the curtains of night. God to him was dead and in all the world the only love he knew was the dumb affection of the forlorn yellow dog.
When Mr. Higgins went back to that camp in later days the road monkey would listen attentively to the presentation of the loving Christ and seemed to wonder if it were possible that God could care for him.
"Sing, brother," said the missionary. But the old man only shook his head. He would not sing. Nay! he could not. His heart strings were withered; melody had left him through the unfaithfulness of woman. He had passed into the starless night where no glimmer of hope entered, and in his solitude he caressed his little dog and perhaps wondered if the great God cared, if any being was interested in him besides the faithful little animal.
The Rev. Frank Higgins was preparing for the evening service. He had rolled the barrel into the center of the room where it was to do duty as a pulpit. The proprietor of the camp came in and seeing the barrel, but not knowing its intended purpose, appropriated it as a seat. Not wishing to disturb the proprietor, Mr. Higgins stood by his side and conducted the service.
The place was well filled and the interest was intense. The men entered heartily into the singing, and when the sermon came it was full of keen home thrusts. The errors of the lumberjacks were pointed out with freedom and a remedy forced with conviction. The proprietor sitting on the pulpit enjoyed the straightforward way in which the preacher dealt with the lumberjacks, and at every telling shot heartily applauded and added some words of encouragement to the speaker.
"Now you're getting them, Higgins; keep the chips a-flying. Give them another whirl, Pilot; you have them where the hide is thin." With these and other suggestions he added his encouragement.
It happened that while the proprietor wasa man whose record as a logger was one of the best in the state, being able to get out his logs where others would fail, yet his morals were far below his business reputation. His son was following in his footsteps, much to the sorrow of the mother and the disgust of the father.
After the proprietor had applauded several times and given his advice as to the style of preaching suited to the lumberjacks, Mr. Higgins turned his guns on the proprietors, contractors and foremen for the example some of them set before the men.
"I do not wonder that you lumberjacks live shameless lives, for the leaders of the work often set you the worst examples. Some of the proprietors, contractors and bosses are to be found drinking, gambling and carousing in the villages and towns, and they who should lead you into better things are only examples of riot and immorality. They are your examples and you are responding to them."
The proprietor sat silent.
"Why don't you applaud that sentiment also?" asked the preacher of the proprietor. "It's just as true as the others."
When Mr. Higgins went into the office that night the proprietor was there, and as he entered the logger looked up and said: "That was pretty blank plain, Pilot."
"I always preach so the audience will understand me," replied the minister.
"But you needn't have shouted the whole blank thing before the crowd," returned the proprietor.
"I didn't tell them a thing but what they already knew, Mr. Blank. The boys know how you are living and that your son is following pretty close in your footsteps. It's time to call a halt, for you can't be proud of the example you're setting."
Before the missionary left the camp the proprietor came and thanked him for not only fearlessly preaching to the lumberjacks but for being equally ready to preach to the lumber kings.
While many refuse the word of life, yet the seed sown often springs up in later days to show that a dormant seed may yet come to fruitage.
One who had often attended the services came to no decision as the result of the sowing. Shortly afterwards he was seriouslyhurt and carried to the hospital. Mr. Higgins visited him and tried to bring him to a decision. Since there was no hope of recovery he was carried to his Canadian home to die among his kinsmen. There in the long days of pain and waiting the seed scattered in the meetings began to spring and come to full fruitage, for the dying man passed over the river lighted by the presence of one who said, "I am the light of the world."
While the Sky Pilot preached in a certain camp there was a wondrous quiet, for the Spirit of God brooded above the place, and his presence always brings life. No one was surprised when a woodsman walked up to the preacher and said, "Mr. Higgins, I want you to pray for me right now."
The sermon closed without another word and prayer was offered for the desiring man who had boldly taken a stand for righteousness. When the minister had closed his prayer the man said, "I want to pray for myself," and in presence of the watching camp the man made his petition for pardon and received it.
Turning to his workmates he told them that this was the end of his old life and its works and that in the future he would work for Christ as well as trust him.
After supper was over the next evening the men of the camp received a new idea of Christian service. The convert of the previous night took out his violin and began to play the favorite of the camps—"Jesus Lover of My Soul." The lumberjacks listened and their interest turned to astonishment when the convert drew out a Bible and began to read a chapter to the crowd. But if they were astonished at the reading they were dumbfounded when he announced that he was going to give them a talk. He had learned the principles of scripture in his youth and now he gave the boys the old gospel which was doubly precious to him because of his recent experience.
Through the winter he continued to hold meetings with the men, and in all the north woods there was no prouder camp, for it claimed to be the only one having a settled pastor. When Mr. Higgins returned to the camp he found the men happy in the new condition, stimulated with the encouragementthe convert had given them and more ready to learn of the transforming power of the Divine Man of Galilee.
"The woods were God's first temples," and in the green solitudes, under the unchanging pines, men are worshiping.
In all parts of northern Minnesota are found the logging camps. The distances traversed by the missionaries in reaching these outposts demand determined purpose, strength of body and love for humanity. The lumberjacks that are in a camp this winter are scattered all through the north with the opening of the next logging season, for there is little to tie a man to one employer in preference to another, and those who received the services of the mission workers one year are ever ready to claim them in their new place of labor. The result of this scattering is that requests come to Mr. Higgins from all parts of the lumber district, asking for the services of the missionaries. The demand is greater than the possibilities of the exchequer and many who ask meet with disappointment. A mission worker is placed over a group of camps,from eight to twenty, and from camp to camp he goes with his tidings of salvation, holding meetings every night in a different camp. The work is strenuous, and he must have a heart warm with the love for souls of men who would willingly, faithfully brave the dangers and privations consequent to the long distances between the camps. It would be hard to find a more devoted set of men than these hardy camp preachers, who set at naught the dangers that they may serve God and assist their fellows.
Rev. Frank E. Higgins is superintendent of the camp work and tries to reach every camp in which any of his workers are laboring. He is constantly on the go, "a sort of walking boss for the Sky Route Co." The scattered flock is loved by the shepherd and he will brave any danger to serve the people he has chosen to reach.
Minnesota's winters are severe. It seldom thaws after November and the thermometer often registers thirty degrees below zero, not seldom reaching a much lower mark. If a strong wind is blowing when the temperature is low the cold penetrates even the warmest furs and pierces the wayfarer with its keen arctic shafts.