TOTING WITH FLASH
TOTING WITH FLASH
Beautiful is the deep mantle of pinery snow. No soot or stain is on the bosom of the earth, only the long stretch of "the white silence." But too often the work of the missionaries is increased by the heavy snows, and the delight of the forest is lost in the heart-breaking labor of the journeys from camp to camp. Put your "turkey" on your back and try the trudge through the deep snows, and see if the romance does not depart as weariness enters the limbs. Step forward in the early morning through the new fallen snow. The north wind is visiting the earth, and his breath is penetrating even the furry clothing. Go on! The camp that ends the journey is only the little distance of ten long, lonely, humanless miles. The pack may be heavy when you start, but before long you are transporting a mountain that has developed from a peak to an endless range of Himalayas. The fun has departed and only the hard spirit of fatigue is your company. Every step is an effort, every blast of the wind reaches the marrow: the exposed face feels like cold onyx, and the wind-inflamed eyes look through frozen lashes for the smoke of the cookshed abovethe distant trees. The fingertips send to the brain their protest against the numbing cold that stiffens them, and the arms are swinging to aid the frozen blood to reach the pained extremities. Mile after mile, endlessly the trail stretches into the forest; mile after mile the pain and suffering continue; mile after mile the weary feet drag the heavy burden to carry the message of a Savior to the neglected men who, far from civilization, work in the pine forests of the North Star State. At last, yonder above the green sea of Norway lances, the column of smoke rises like a beacon to tell of warmth and food, and the safe companionship of men. The sight of the unconscious smoke acts like a stimulant. At last the view of the crude camp breaks in fulness on your eyes. Moses saw the Promised Land from a distance, but the sight of that collection of log shacks means more to you, tired and almost frozen, than the land beyond muddy Jordan did to the writer of the Pentateuch. It means a chance to rest, to warm—and to the missionary, who is daily making this journey through the frozen forest, a chance to preach the unsearchable riches of the world's Savior.
Night after night the missionary holds his meetings, each night in a different camp. The day is spent in passing from one camp to another, for often the camps are far apart and transportation is primitive; it depends on first principles.
During the first three years of Mr. Higgins' work he found that while a man could do much, a man and two dogs could do more. He secured two large St. Bernard dogs and by means of his dog team made the long journey between the camps. The idea of using a dog team is a very practical one. It furnished an easy means of locomotion, the task of stabling was not difficult and the cost of food nothing. When the run was to be made between points on the railway the dogs and sled could easily be placed in the baggage car and be ready for the drive to the camp as soon as the train stopped.
In all new work prejudice must be met, and in this respect the mission to the camps was no exception. Some thought it a new species of graft, others desired to be left to the old ways and many had a prejudice due to another form of religion. It is not oftenthat dogs assist in breaking religious prejudices, but Flash and Spark had a large part in assisting the logging camp mission into easy paths. The lumberjacks are passionately fond of animals, and the advent of the dog team made a favorable first impression in almost every camp. The doors of many bunkhouses are secured by a sliding latch, and when pressure is brought to bear against the outside of the door it will open without the raising of the latch. On arriving at the camp in the evening the missionary would drive his team against the door and right into the bunkhouse. The sudden, unexpected arrival immediately created interest, and while the men crowded around the handsome dogs the minister would explain his business and announce the time of meeting. The dogs were protectors as well as workers and at the beginning of this work the faithful animals silenced many a menace.
The dogs were good travelers. Over the rough forest trails they would drag their sled at the rate of six or eight miles an hour and be none the worse for thirty or forty miles.
On a journey from Northome to International Falls, Minnesota, the Sky Pilot lost his way on the Little Fork River. When night came on and it was evident that no sheltered lodging could be found the minister and his dogs prepared to camp under the zero sky. A large fire was built around a pine stump and wood collected for the night. The only food Mr. Higgins had with him was a rabbit he had shot, and this was divided between himself and the dogs. It was the only food since breakfast. The sweet green boughs of the pines furnished a bed above the snow and the robes from the sled gave a degree of comfort to the resting place, whose canopy was the frozen dome of heaven. By his side the dogs pressed closely for the warmth. The dark depths of night hung like a spangled sheet above, but nearer than the shades which surrounded the sleeper was the One who never slumbereth.
During the night the howling of the timber wolves awakened the missionary and in the dark circle around him he could see the fireballs of their eyes, while their voices were distinct and near. Arising, the missionaryreplenished the fire, and when it broke into a cheery blaze the howling of the disappointed wolves grew fainter until the silence of the forest again took up its interrupted reign.
Early the next morning the minister was on his way and soon arrived at the village of Little Forks, where he conducted the first religious service ever held in that place.
On another occasion, when passing from one distant camp to another, Mr. Higgins was overtaken by a severe snowstorm and in a few minutes all sense of direction was lost in the raging blizzard. The dog team wandered from the beaten path into the muskeg and in the swamp they were compelled to spend most of the day. Toward evening the worst of the blizzard had passed and he was able to complete his long and weary journey.
After supper Mr. Higgins went to the barn to feed his dog team, but to his astonishment the dogs refused all food. He had driven them hard and long, so when they refused to eat he naturally thought it was due to overwork and reproached himself for being thoughtless of his friends. Later he went to them again, but they would nottouch a morsel of food. With a sore heart the preacher retired to his bed, but his rest was disturbed with dreams of the overdriven dogs. He arose early, and when going towards the barn met the proprietor, whose face was red with anger.
"Is them blank dogs yours?" asked the angry man.
"They are," said the missionary, wondering if the man was going to add to the reproach by telling him that the dogs were dead.
"Then pay for the pork that the brutes chewed up while you were at supper last night. The hungry cannibals swiped half a hog and ate it. I ain't got nothin' but eggs and salt meat to give the boarders today."
While the enraged hotel keeper was narrating his tale of woe a load of anxiety passed from the preacher's mind and before, the proprietor had finished he found his auditor laughing with hearty spirit. Mr. Higgins paid for the meal of the "hungry cannibals," but he remarked in telling it:
"I did not object, for it was the only time I was ever asked to pay their board, and Iassure you they earned it while we were trying to find our way in the blizzard."
Snow storms come up suddenly, and when the wind whirls the sheet of fallen flakes, all points of the compass are soon lost even to the well tried woodsman. The description of a blizzard may form an interesting page in fiction, but the experience adds to gray hairs and unending memory.
In January, 1906, Rev. Frank Higgins was crossing Red Lake, when the snow began to fall. The uninterrupted wind, as it swept down the long stretch of ice, caught the loose snow and filled the air with its choking mass. The wooded shore was soon hidden by the veiling snow and all sense of direction had disappeared. Down the twenty miles of the lake the crystal clouds swept with increasing volume. Night was coming on, and yet the darkness could scarcely add to the helplessness of the wanderers.
To the Father, who ruleth the rain of summer and the snow of winter, the missionary raised his prayer for help, and what man could not do was done by the leading of the ever-helpful God. He who guideththe stars in their courses led the lost to the wooded shore.
On the shore not a human habitation was to be seen, neither did the minister know the direction to the nearest village. For several hours he wandered in the unbroken forest, and near the low hour of midnight he came to the miserable shack of an Indian squaw. His scanty knowledge of the Indian tongue came into happy use and the lonely inhabitant granted him permission to sleep on the floor until morning came and the blizzard had spent itself.
When the Camp Mission first began to distribute literature, it caused a change in the means of transportation, for there were heavy boxes of old magazines to carry to the camps and horses were needed to haul the loads. Mr. Higgins had noticed that there was little to amuse the men of the camps and nothing helpful for their leisure hours. He therefore wrote to the churches in the state asking them to collect old magazines and ship them to him for distribution. The churches responded and soon he and his helpers were distributing literature to about one hundred camps. From five toseven tons of magazines are distributed in a season. Great good has come from this feature of the work; it gave the mind another channel for vent, the filthy conversation so common in the camps has largely passed away, and through reading the men are less inclined to quarrels. It has been noticed by the logging contractors that even the illiterate find recreation in the illustrations and many a dark hour has been brightened to the men who never read a line.
On going into a camp which he was visiting for the first time, Mr. Higgins held his service and afterwards distributed his magazines. Immediately there was a rush for the reading matter and then for the wannigan to buy lanterns by which to read. In a few minutes the clerk had sold every lantern he had in stock and could have disposed of several more, had they been on hand.
"What are you doing?" asked the cranky clerk when the Sky Pilot entered the office a little later. "Are you trying to turn the bunkshack into a night school? I've sold every lantern in the place and the Jacks are crying like fiends for more."
"I've only distributed a few magazines so the boys can read a little improving matter," said the minister.
"Lumberjacks improving their minds?" sarcastically replied "the guy that splashes ink." "This neck of the woods will have a university extension course next, if this thing keeps up."
"You surely don't object to the boys reading?" asked the minister.
"Not at all," said the clerk sulkily, "but you might have remembered that a clerk has lots of time to read and have left a few of your mind-improvers for his use also."
The clerk received his share of the reading matter before the Pilot left the camp.
Often when a box of magazines is brought into the camp the men who have gone to their bunks will arise and greedily come forward to receive their share in the distribution. These magazines are passed from one to another until they are read and reread, or worn out from much handling. Of the lonely lives cheered by them, God only could give the number.
In a warehouse in Akeley, Minnesota, a bundle of magazines addressed to Rev.Frank E. Higgins was waiting for the tote-team to carry it to a neighboring camp. The tote-team driver came in, somewhat the worse for the liquid refreshment he had taken. While looking over the bundles waiting for his load he espied the one addressed to the Rev. Frank E. Higgins. The bundle interested him and he read aloud:
"The Rev. Frank E. Higgins. Say, penpusher, who is this for? Is it for our Frank Higgins, the Sky Pilot?"
"That's the man," replied the clerk.
"The Rev. Frank E. Higgins," read again the driver, "some mistake here, penpusher, the Sky Pilot's no reverend, he's a Christian. That man's no reverend, he's a Christian."
Shouldering the bundle he carried it to the sleigh, still mumbling, "He's no reverend, he's a Christian."
Pertaining to the use of the title "Sky Pilot," a little story is told.
A minister who was going through the camps investigating the work of the mission referred to the various workers as "Sky Pilot Davis," "Sky Pilot Date," and others. He had heard the term used in reference to Mr. Higgins and naturally assumed that itwas a title common to all the camp preachers. The push in one of the camps heard him, and turning to the clerk, asked:
"What the devil does he mean by Sky Piloting around that way? You'd think the woods were full of Sky Pilots, while we all know there's only one, that's Higgins."
The tendency of the lumberjack is to give the title to Mr. Higgins alone, although it is occasionally given to the others, but seldom by the old time lumberjacks. Higgins alone is the Sky Pilot to them.
Among the rigid Catholics there is naturally a prejudice against Protestant work, but it seems that the work must be done by Protestants or left undone. A priest could hardly do the work. It would be difficult to go through the forms and ceremonies of Catholicism in the camps. Forms and ceremonies are not successful when interruptions are common and likely to occur at any time.
But Mike Sullivan was no bigot. He could appreciate the idea that all men were striving to please God and hoping to reach the same Heaven.
"This idea of having many churches don't bother me any more," he said. "Ithink I get the idea. It's like this: these camps around here's all working for one company. O'Brien is push on section nine, Johnson's boss at Camp 2 on fourteen, Kirk is foreman on the north half of twenty-six and White sees to the cuttin' on thirty-six, while every gang is landing its stuff on the same lake and in the spring they'll make the drive together down the river. Gettin' out logs is what they're paid for and the lumber king in Minneapolis foots the bill for the whole works. So what's the use of jawin' if the push in our camp wears a different kind o' shirt than the push on thirty-six. Logs is what the man in Minneapolis wants and he don't care how them different foremen skids the logs so long as they get the stuff to the landing. That's my way of looking at the churches."
Now the work has proved itself, it is much better understood and more highly appreciated by men of all religious persuasions. Many of the Catholics are deeply interested in the progress of the work, for they know that it does not strive to make Protestants of them, but that its end and aim is to lead the lumberjacks to a better life through the simple presentation of Jesus Christ. Theresult is that all classes and conditions crowd into the place of meeting and give respectful attention to the word of life.
One night at Stewart's camp, out from Blackduck, Minnesota, the meeting was in full swing when two teamsters entered the bunkhouse and took their seats by the fire. It was after eight o'clock, and they had just returned from Blackduck where they had been with their loads. On returning to the camp they learned that the Sky Pilot was holding service and came in supperless to enjoy the meeting. Few of our towns people would forego the pleasures of the table, after the appetite had been sharpened by hours of labor in the keen air of winter, in order to attend a religious service. Such a desire for the gospel on the part of the men fills the missionary with a desire to impart the truth. It is an inspiration to preach to an eager audience.
The toil of the missionary increases with each day. Exposure robs the body of its vitality, the severe temperature and the strong breath of the wind diminish the powers of the men who must endure them, be they ever so strong.
The Sky Pilot had been hard at work for several months and the arduous labor had told on his unusual strength. He had taken cold through exposure, but the work was calling and he pushed on to the waiting camps. It was storming and the pack he was carrying grew heavier with every tired step. He thought that the exercise of the journey would in itself work a cure, but the pain increased and the wretchedness was accentuated by the cold. Drearily he plodded on, hoping that some tote-team would come that way and carry him to the camp, but no welcome conveyance appeared. Unable to proceed any further, he at last sat down in the drifted snow to rest. Through the cut over lands the cold wind swept its unobstructed way, chilling the sick man to the marrow. Off in the far north the tall Norways lifted their long arms to heaven, while the blasts of the wind waved them like the grain fields of the treeless prairie. Miles to the southward lay the habitations of men, and yonder in the hiding groves to the north was the camp he was hoping to reach. There was warmth there, and to the sick man the uninviting camp seemed a palace of comfort. If he could only reach the shacks, ifhe could reach the boys, that was all he asked.
Gathering his remaining strength, he struggled to his feet and pressed slowly towards the goal. At last he entered the uncut timber where the strength of the blast was broken by the trees. On through the untrodden snow he tramped, bent with weariness, worn and pained, pressing on in spite of illness until the smoke of the cookshed showed itself above the hollow in which the buildings were located. There the lumberjacks found him and assisted him to the shelter of the camp, where they tenderly worked to warm and comfort the man who had so often stood between them and death. Everything that they could do for the missionary was gladly done, but they were limited by isolation and the minister was very sick. After supper the men in the bunkhouse discussed the situation:
"The Sky Pilot's a pretty sick man," said the bull cook, "and we ought to do something to help the poor devil." This was rough but affectionate.
"Whiskey's a good thing for one that's ailin'," suggested one.
"Whiskey?" remarked another, "what's the use of talking about whiskey in this camp? You know that Sweeny's tongue has been hanging out for a week and that's proof there isn't a drop in the camp."
Various remedies were suggested but they were not to be found. The men were discouraged in their helplessness.
"We ought to do something for him," said a Christian sawyer, "we can't give him any medicine for we haven't it, but I'll tell you boys, we can pray for the man that is always praying for us."
The men were silent for a moment, then a driver said, "I guess it's the only thing we can do, but we've never logged much on that land. You start the deal, Johnson, for you're onto that game more than the rest of the push. You say it aloud, Johnson, and we'll sort of keep you company."
Reverently the men stood with bowed heads while the Christian lumberjack led in a rude prayer, and silently the men, who prayed not for themselves, joined in the petition for the man who "was always praying for them."
That night when the missionary heard of the praying lumberjacks he thanked Godand wept himself to sleep. The morning brought a brighter day to the men, for they heard that their prayers had been answered,—the Sky Pilot was on the way to recovery.
Whiskey, the Wheel and Women are the Three Fates of the woodsmen. If the lumberjacks could be separated from these the chances for lifting them to a higher level would be increased. Whiskey is the worst of them and leads to the others. For self protection the proprietors and contractors of the camps are compelled to watch that no liquor enters; with its introduction trouble begins and a reduced output of logs is the result. Yet in spite of the care exercised by respectable foremen, it makes its way into the camp, being carried by the tote-teams, the bootlegger, and the men when returning from the neighboring towns. Men with strong appetites generally find a way to satisfy their desires. The camp may be miles from civilization, but the curse of Olympic gods and depraved men makes its way into the inaccessible places. Where a camp is near a village alcohol is easy to obtain, and Sunday, being a day of rest, is likely to be a day of carousing and shame.
There were several camps near IslandLake, and on the Sunday that Frank Higgins visited the camps there the boys had been "tanking up" with squirrel whiskey from early morn. At the afternoon meeting the spirit of whiskey showed itself in many disturbances. One intoxicated man was worse than the others and was finally thrown out of the bunkhouse by the minister, and after that things went smoothly.
Later in the day the missionary was in the village of Island Lake and while talking to a friend, the lumberjack he had ejected from the camp came staggering up. The campman was accompanied by a score of his mates who were also under the influence of liquor.
"Are you the blank preacher that fired me out of the camp?" asked the man of the sudden exit. There was passion in his tone and he was evidently anxious for a row.
"I am the man," replied the brawny preacher, drawing himself up and advancing toward the lumberjack, "what have you to say against it?"
The drunken man looked at the minister as steadily as his unsteady legs would allow him, and suddenly changed his mind about the intended row.
THE SKY PILOT TAKING A MAN TO THE HOSPITAL
THE SKY PILOT TAKING A MAN TO THE HOSPITAL
"Not a word, preacher, not a word. I ain't got a word to say against it. Preacher, don't you ever think I want to say anything against it. I just wanted to know if you was the man, that's all. You're all right, preacher, you're all right. 'Twas a blank good throw. I ain't got nothin' against it."
Turning to the other lumberjacks, Mr. Higgins said:
"Boys, did you ever know Higgins to do you a bad turn? Can you show me where I have not tried to help you? Yet for the sport of the thing you try to get this poor, drunken fellow to cause trouble, just for a moment's laughter. Is that a proper return?"
The men made no answer, but shame rested on many a winter beaten cheek. That night in a nearby camp almost every man of them came to the preacher after the meeting.
"Forget it, Pilot," said the spokesman, "We're ashamed of the way we came at you, but you know it wasn't us, it was Whiskey. That's your only enemy in these woods. Say you'll forget it and shake."
"Thanks, boys, I have already. Give me your hands."
The pastorate has its trials, as every minister knows, but for unbounded variety of the unexpected the camp missionary has the city man far in the rear. Church quarrels have bounds, but where are the limits of the quarrels of the lumberjacks? From words they readily pass to blows and in a moment's flight blood-shed results. In February of this year the writer received a letter from Mr. Higgins, describing a railway trip. A portion is appended:
"I recently left Deer River on the Itasca Logging Railroad for Fourtown, and experienced the worst trip it was ever my lot to take. The car was crowded with lumberjacks, few of whom were sober. The woodsmen had over twenty quarts of Deer River squirrel whiskey, and in a short time things were moving at a terrific rate. You may call it a tempest in a teapot, but never have I seen anything like the affair; no human tongue could describe the sight. The Irish, the Swedes and the Glengarry Scotch were filled with whiskey, and every man was out for blood, and blood they had,—an abundance of it. An old time lumberjack said that in all his days in the woods he has yet to see the equal of the scene.
"I took a hand in trying to keep the boys in order and although I succeeded in preventing three fights, the conditions were soon beyond me, for it was impossible, even for a traveling missionary, to be in more than one part of the car at the same time and the performance was more than a three ring affair.
"When matters got to this pace I had to content myself with taking a hand only when it seemed that permanent injury would be done to the participants. One old man, very much under the influence of liquor, had his face battered beyond recognition. I pulled off the chastiser, but did not succeed in releasing the old man before one of his eyes had been closed and the mouth and face were covered with blood. No sooner had the champion of this affair been separated from the old man than another lumberjack was at the bully and the bully was taking the same medicine he had so liberally given to the old fellow. This second scrap placed another patient on my hands.
"When we came to the different camps and the men began to get off the train, I had to literally drag them through the snow away from the track, so they would not bekilled, for many of them were too drunk and excited to realize the danger.
"I hope I shall never see such a condition again. Was it not Paul who said, 'I have fought with beasts at Ephesus.' I had a like experience on that logging train. A sober woodsman who saw the fight of the drunken lumberjacks said, 'Pilot, why do you continue to work among such men?' and I made answer, 'Because my Master died to save such.' This is to me a sufficient answer. The conditions need changing, and the only thing that will bring about a change is the Gospel."
In the sleigh of the Sky Pilot antiseptic bandages and a few medicines are carried. Through them he is able to relieve the wounded and assist the sick. His sleigh is often converted into an ambulance and men who have met with accidents are carried to the nearest hospital for treatment. If the accident is severe he visits the wounded to give cheer and hope. There, in the hospital, the men have time to think of eternal things, and the comfort of Christ is often the stimulus of the recovering and the solace of the dying.
When death is approaching, the last letters are written and assurance of decent interment is given. The poor lumberjack may have no money to meet the expense, but the minister makes all arrangements for the funeral and after the body is entombed he goes back to the camp and tells the boys of their comrade's request for Christian burial. The campmen pay back every cent the Sky Pilot has expended.
"Tell the boys that in this hour Jesus Christ brought his strong salvation to me," said a dying man. "Ask them to trust him."
When the missionary goes back to the camp with such a message from the dead the interest is profound. Coming from one of themselves it seems more real than if it were the message of the preacher. When the testimony comes from their own mates they are more receptive to the gentle Gospel of the Cross. Often in death a lumberjack, by his message to the foresters, has accomplished more than in his years of life.
While speaking of this itinerating work we must add a paragraph concerning the homesteaders. In this forest region is much land that is open to settlement. The little cabinsof the homesteaders, who have taken up claims, are seen in many parts of the forest, and the small clearings tell of man's presence. When the settlers hear that Rev. Frank E. Higgins is to hold services in a neighboring camp they are often found at the bunkhouse meetings. Mr. Higgins is practically the only pastor who visits the scattered peasantry; he conducts their marriage ceremonies, baptizes their children and speaks the last words over their dead. Into these homes he alone comes bearing spiritual tidings. Some of these homesteaders work their farms in summer and in the winter help out the scanty increase of the little fields by working in the logging camps. So in passing the new homes he leaves the literature, "speaks a good word for Jesus Christ," adds a sentence of comfort and passes along the trail,—like a true servant of him who was gladly received by the common people because he went about doing good. "Go ye into the highways and hedges," said the Nazarene.
In the camps the missionary is largely a preacher; in the lumber towns the work he must do is cut to no design or pattern. One might call it pastoral work, and in a free use of the term it is, but I know of no pastor who is doing work of this nature unless it be the men in the city missions. It is work which consists largely of the unexpected—changing a chance circumstance into Christian activity.
The villages and towns have followed the railways, bringing in the many alluring vices of civilization. Through the approaches of vice the campmen have been demoralized, their lives made almost worthless, and their characters seared with the brand of iniquity. The contractors find it a task to obtain suitable men for their crews, for the saloon and its concomitant evils have made many of the lumberjacks irresponsible and incapable.The men will leave their work on the least provocation to spend a few days in debauchery. Often a contractor finds himself, in the parlance of the camps, "with one crew coming to camp, another working, and another leaving camp." This means loss on the part of the men and inability on the part of the contractor to deliver his contract of logs. As one contractor expressed it: "The jacks work until their hides begin to crack, then follow their tongues to the nearest irrigation plant, tank up until the stake is blown, then mosey to a camp to dry out again." The village and town saloons are largely the cause of this. The rum shops, and worse, are ever on the lookout for the boys, and he who escapes the clutches of the godless crowd must indeed be immune to temptation.
Mr. Higgins was in a hotel in Tenstrike, Minnesota, when a lumberjack who had finished his winter's work came into the house to wait for the train going south. Immediately the saloon men and gamblers were after him but he resisted and left the village with his check uncashed. The gamblers learned that he was going to Bemidji so they wired to the gamblers of that place to meet him.When the woodsman left the train he was hailed by a waiting "toot." The "toot" was genial, gracious, sympathetic, and to cement the friendship, the one must treat and the other do likewise. While they drank the attendant at the wheel made music with the roulette ball and soon in response to the siren's singing the lumberjack was seated at the wheel where he lost in a few hours the wages it had taken him months to earn. When he left the place he was drunken, penniless, forsaken.
The writer and Frank Higgins were going through a gambling den in one of the northern towns. At the roulette wheel sat a young traveling man playing his chips with liberal hand. Merrily the ivory rattled in the groove and settled in the space. Now he lost, now he won. Joy or anguish was on his face as he played to increase his winnings or retrieve his losses. It was interesting to watch the play of the man's passions as expressed in his countenance. Hour after hour the game dragged on. We visited other resorts of the lumberjack and returned at midnight, but the traveling man was still at the wheel. Hope still lingered, but from the haggard, drawn expression of his facewe could tell that he had lost heavily. It was 1:30 A. M., when the game ended and the man was without a cent. Mr. Higgins spoke to him in the lobby of the hotel. Despair was depicted on the man's face. Worn with anxiety, he staggered like one under the power of liquor, although not a drop had passed his lips, and the wild look of his eyes suggested the haunted mien of one who might attempt his own life.
When Mr. Higgins spoke to him, he replied:
"I am an embezzler tonight. I have spent all my own money and all the money with which my employer had trusted me. I deserve the penitentiary."
Continuing, he told us his story. He was trained to a profession but the confinement of his vocation brought on ill health and he had begun to travel for a well known firm. He was the only child of respectable parents, and in his present wretchedness he thought of the disappointment and grief coming to these aged ones as a result of his folly. I could not but admire the handsome fellow, foolish though he was, for his apparent love for his home.
"I have disgraced them," he said in anguish, "and when they hear of my dishonesty it will kill them."
He went to the desk and wrote a letter to the firm telling them of his fall and how he had lost their money in gambling. When he was about to mail the letter Mr. Higgins went to him again and tried to induce him to go to bed.
"No," he said, "I could not sleep, and if I could, I have no money to pay for a room. I have been dishonest enough already without wronging the proprietor."
"Clerk, give him a room and charge it to me," said Mr. Higgins, taking the matter into his own hands. "Now, brother, you go to bed and stay there until I call you, and we'll see what we can do. Don't mail that letter. Perhaps it won't be necessary in the morning."
He went to breakfast with us. After the meal the missionary went out to interview the town and county officials. The result of the conference was that the gambler turned over to the traveling man the amount of money embezzled and took his note for the same. The traveling man pledged his word never to gamble again and went on his waysadder, and we hope wiser, because of the experience.
The same night on which the above incident occurred, we entered a palatial saloon and gambling place and found but few men present, for it was a season when most of the men were in camp after spending the Christmas holidays in town. We entered into conversation with the proprietor of the place.
"Things are pretty quiet," said Mr. Higgins, "I suppose you are not making expenses just now?"
"Hardly," answered the proprietor, "but I needn't worry, it will come in later." He nodded to the camps west of town, "All the boys are working."
This is the attitude of these keepers. They consider the earnings of the lumberjack as their legitimate spoil and part of their yearly income.
The wife of one of the saloon proprietors, overhearing a remark concerning her jewels and apparel, said:
"I can afford to wear rich clothing. My husband has about a thousand men working for him in the woods." The meaning was obvious: that these men would spend theirearnings in the saloon, at the gaming table, and in the retreats connected with her husband's establishment.
The brazen effrontery of those engaged in this business is indescribable. The flesh and blood of men is to be lowered to the level of the brutes, appetites of lust are to be satisfied, passions of evil are to be encouraged, and no shade of shame is to be found on the countenances of this depraving element. Where money is to be had the souls of men are not to be considered. Human misery is nothing. There is money in the damning business—then damn the soul and get the money is the policy.
An extensive self-satisfaction, a mantle of self-righteousness, clothes the men of this vocation.
"Bad? Of course it's a bad business," said one, "but if we don't sell the stuff some one else will. As long as there are fools to buy it we intend to supply them. It's their lookout, not ours."
"But don't you think you are morally responsible for tempting men?" I asked.
"All a man is responsible for is being honest," he replied. "I have been honest in all I have done. No man was ever robbed inmy place, and the games are straight. I may go to hell when I am through here, but my job will be shoveling coal to make it hotter for the hypocrites who profess to be honest and then steal when they get the chance."
They talked freely of their business and one gambler had the courage to make this assertion:
"There isn't a more honest set of men in the country than the professional gamblers. They are all right, but the associations are bad."
The above may be a description of some gamblers, but not of all, for it is well known that the games are often crooked and by mechanical devices are made a sure thing for the house.
In one of the range towns a cruiser entered a gambler's place with several thousand dollars in his possession. It was not long before he had lost all. Satisfying himself that the game was not "on the square," he drew his gun and shot up both the gambler and the wheel, took his money from the till and left the place. The gambler was maimed for life.
The saloons and gambling places are palatial and attractive. They are fitted withthe best the town affords, resplendent with glitter and flash of lights, showy woodwork and decorated walls. Courtesy and attention await the victims, for an army of men is ready to respond to any desire the lumberjacks may express, no matter how low. Everything is designed to allure. No wonder the men who have known only the discomforts of the camps, with their hard, grinding labor and unaesthetic surroundings, are easily caught in the net that is spread at their feet.
Because of this lawless element so common in the lumber towns, and the unrestrained ways in which almost all of the towns are run, the "open" policy being the common one, there is work for the camp missionary to do. The Rev. Frank Higgins goes into the saloons to find the stray sheep. His errands of mercy have led him into hundreds of dram shops and gambling places.
The writer was with him in one of the towns and the following incidents are only a part of that day's work of helpfulness:
Having heard from a contractor that one of the boys had been reduced to helplessness through drink, and more than drink, Mr.Higgins started for the saloons and continued his search through many groggeries until at last he found the man. The poor drunken wretch was lying on the floor behind the stove, and the missionary put his strong arms around the besotted being and almost carried him to a lodging place where his needs were supplied.
After that we visited the hospital to call on the camp boys. There he heard of a lumberjack who had been dismissed from the hospital that morning. The man was able to be around but too weak to work, and was penniless. So the second search began and the man was located in the lobby of a cheap hotel. Mr. Higgins went to the proprietor, guaranteed him against loss, and went on his way leaving the lumberjack free from care while regaining his strength. The man had been converted in the camps that winter, but so miserable had been his morals that no one trusted him. That was two years ago; today he is a respected Christian worker.
Later came the assisting of another helpless lumberjack and the day closed with the incident of the gambling traveling man, described in this chapter.
It is helpfulness that counts. On the banks of the Galilean lake our Master, who never wearied of doing good, met his disciple Peter and said unto him, "Simon, lovest thou me?"
Peter replied to the question, "Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee." Then the divine lips opened and gave to Peter and to us the end and aim of the Christian's relation to man—"Feed my sheep." If we love our Master, Christian activity in the form of assisting men should be an ever-present result.
In instances like the following the flesh may rebel, but the command still remains:
For three weeks Mike had been on a drunken spree; during the days and nights of debauchery he had not changed his clothes or even washed his hands. This was his condition when Mr. Higgins found him senseless with drink in the "snake room." The missionary took him to a lodging house and bathed the body from which the cleansing water had so long been absent. The man's feet were so swollen that the heavy boots were removed with difficulty and when the socks were taken off the skin came with them. It was no wonder that the effluviumdrove the minister from the room. It was a hard task, against which the flesh rebelled, but the Master gave the command, "Feed my sheep," and here was one who needed attention. Tenderly the Sky Pilot watched over the poor fellow, supplying his needs until a few days later he was able to return to the camp. The man thus helped had been educated for the Catholic priesthood and drink had ruined him.
Actions such as these may not result in the great end of conversion, but they do result in aiding the cause of Christ, for the men see in the missionary the spirit of the helpful Master.
Many times during the period of Mr. Higgins' residence at Bemidji, Mrs. Higgins was awakened at night by some poor, spent lumberjack who came to the Sky Pilot's home to ask for assistance. Although she was alone, Mr. Higgins being in the camps, she would arise and feed the hungry man and then direct him to some place where he could spend the night.
"Who is that man?" asked a stranger who had been watching Mr. Higgins as he went among the lumberjacks in the village street.
LOADING FROM A LAKE
LOADING FROM A LAKE
"That's the Lumberjack Sky Pilot, a fellow who never turned a lumberjack down," said the woodsman, and added, "His job is keeping us out of hell." It was crudely expressed, but it represents the sentiment of the boys; with them Christianity must act as well as speak.
When a lumberjack is in trouble with the police he is quite sure to send for Mr. Higgins if the Sky Pilot happens to be in the village. Mr. Higgins is well known in these communities and the officials respect him for the interest he shows in his wayward flock. Many a poor fellow, who awakens from a drunken sleep to find himself in the lockup, wonders if the Sky Pilot is near. The missionary has often pleaded for a light sentence or asked for the case to be annulled.
On one occasion he had been called to the justice court to plead for a woodsman who was charged with being drunk and disorderly. The preacher asked the justice to make the sentence as light as possible and to allow the man to go after giving him a reprimand. The judge was an old friend of the missionary, and at the time of the trial could hardly be called sober. Often he would appear in his office the worse for liquor anddispense justice to the petty offenders. In spite of his failing, the justice had a shrewd sense of right and a great respect for the dignity of his office.
After hearing the plea that Mr. Higgins made for the lumberjack the judge decided to reprimand the man and dismiss the case. He tried to sober himself that the dignity of the law might not suffer through the weakness of the dispenser. He knew that the office called for erect deportment, so the bench straightened his figure and impressively began the reprimand:
"W-whiskey is-s a bad thing. It ma-akes a f-fool of an h-honest man and a d-d—n f-fool of a f-fool. It s-shouldn't be used by l-lumberjacks; t-they belong to the l-last c-class already. It ma-akes a f-fool of every man t-that touches it. If you don't believe it, j-just l-look at the j-judge who has the p-power of sentencing you. See w-what w-whiskey has done for him. B-because of my f-friend Higgins I'll let y-you off this t-time, but remember the j-judge and let w-whiskey alone. Dis-dismissed."
The example was a good one. Even Solomon could not have chosen a more timely illustration, for the judge vividly set forthin his own person what whiskey could do for a man, and the woodsman appreciated the force of the advice. Taking the missionary with him, the lumberjack went to the hotel and drew off his shoes. From the toes of the shoes he extracted a roll of bills containing one hundred and fifty dollars.
"If those blood suckers, who made me drunk, had known I had this, they would have robbed me of it the same as they did of the rest and I wouldn't have a cent now. Well, Pilot, I'm through with it. By God's help, this is the last."
The man went to North Dakota and settled on a farm. Today he is the proud owner of three hundred and twenty acres, and is prospering.
The writer is only trying to pen a brief picture of the field as it presents itself to the missionary. No man can give a full description of the wide privilege that is open to the minister in these places where the lumberjacks congregate. He is required to perform varying duties whether they are related to the minister's calling or not. Often, in the regular ministrations, elements are introduced that suggest the burlesque rather thanthe solemn services common to the ministry, as the following incident will illustrate:
It was the last day of the drive and the riverpigs were coming into town after their labors on the lakes and rivers. The town was reaping its harvest—at least the saloons and other evils were. As the Rev. Frank E. Higgins walked the street, he was approached by a drunken riverpig.
"Say, Pilot," he began, "one of our crew fell off a log, pulled the hole in after him and is at the coffin shop ready for the boneyard. We uns want him planted like a decent Christian; he wa'n't no squaw man or Indian. See to the trimmings, will you? Do the job up right if you have to buy out every wannigan in town. Are you on, Pilot? When you're ready call for us at Blank's saloon, for we want to go with you to Jim's bunking place."
The driver left him and entered Blank's saloon to report progress to the boys and the minister proceeded to the undertaker's establishment to make the necessary arrangements for the funeral. He ordered a plain pine coffin, and after procuring a dray for a hearse, drove up to Blank's saloon for the boys.
Out on the sidewalk the riverpigs came noisily, but when they saw the dray with its burden they stopped abruptly.
"It won't go, Pilot," said the one who had made the arrangements. "This is no jack-pine farmer's funeral; we're no cheap skates. This camp's got money and intends to blow it. See? Give us a run for our money."
Then another rum-soaked riverpig spoke up: "If this was a tin-horn gambler or a bloated saloon-keeper they'd have a hearse and a brass band. Jim's only a riverpig, but he's got to be planted with the frills just the same."
"Get a decent box and hearse and call again, Pilot," they shouted as they backed into the saloon to "keep their hides from cracking."
The funeral procession had a more imposing appearance when it drew up a second time at Blank's saloon. A hearse led the procession and six carriages completed the cortege. By this time the mourners were in a state of intoxication, in which feelings of the sublime and the ridiculous blend without effort.
"This is the way to do it," cried one of the riverpigs as he viewed the hearse and carriages."Wouldn't Jim be tickled to death if he saw this show and knew that he was the whole blank thing?"
"Say, Pilot," said one whom Mr. Higgins was helping into a carriage, "when we meet Jim later he'll say, 'I'm proud of the way you fellows rid me out of town.'"
"Pretty near two months' wages gone for a box, but what's expense when we're planting Jim," weepingly commented his bunkmate. "He'd 'a done as much for me if I'd 'a give him a show. It's his last blow out anyway."
All the way to the cemetery the mourners talked in the above strain, constantly expressing their satisfaction over the "frills" of the obsequies and the "agony" they were showing for Jim. There was an undertone of complaint because poor drowned Jim did not come forward and personally thank them for the honor they had conferred.
Around the grave the riverpigs staggered and it looked as if more than Jim were going to occupy the grave, for with difficulty they were kept from tumbling in on the corpse. The minister spoke a few words on the uncertainty of life and the need of preparation for eternity, but his brief addresswas interrupted by the weeping of the drunken attendants and their interjected praises of the dead.
"Speak a good word for Jim, Pilot," said a weeping poleman. "Tell the Lord he could ride a log as well as the best of us."
"Get him through if you can; he wasn't so bad," was the parenthesis of a French-Canadian.
"Good bye, Jim. Our turn's comin'."
The last words were said, the benediction pronounced, and the Sky Pilot turned to leave the cemetery.
"Hold on, there," cried the foreman to the minister. "This is no pauper you buried, but a man whose friends ain't broke."
Taking off his hat, he turned to the crew. "Shell out, you blank sons of the nameless. Jim's been planted O. K., now pay the Sky Pilot for the words he shed over his bones. This is no poor farm job."
The boys shelled out eight dollars and sixty cents for the preacher's services.
The lumberjacks, the homesteaders, the saloon men and the prostitutes claim the missionary as their spiritual friend. It is on him they call when sickness enters theirplaces of abode, and his response is willing and natural. He, as the servant of Christ, is the messenger to the poor and outcast; conditions of life are not considered.
One night, when the Pilot was in a brothel praying with a woman who was passing through the dark waters, the girls of the house crowded around to listen to the prayers and see the end. One of the girls invited him to a private conversation and in it told him the story of her life and the nearness of her death. The physician had informed her that six months was all she could hope to live. "I'll make a short six months of it, for this life is hell, and hell can't be any worse than this," she said.
When the church service closed on the following Sunday evening a messenger was waiting at the Bemidji church to ask him to come at once to the brothel. There he found the girl with whom he had talked. She had taken blue vitrol and this was the end. She had been true to her statement and had made a short six months of it.
The scarlet women turn to him naturally for aid, for they know that he will do all he can to assist in their reformation. His ready sympathy appeals to the outcasts.
On a train leaving Blackduck the Sky Pilot was sitting several seats from a woman whose business was unmistakable. The car was filled with men and the scarlet one was known to many in the coach. As the train started she beckoned to the preacher to come and sit beside her. A smile passed over the faces of the wise ones as the missionary took a seat at her side.
But this is the woman's story: She had recognized Mr. Higgins, having seen him when he visited a woman who was dying in a brothel. She was leaving the place of her sin and degradation and did not know which way to turn for help. Would he assist her? She was tired of it all and wanted to live a better life, but knew of no place that would open except such as linked her to the old.
Mr. Higgins knew of a place where the hands of Christians would welcome her and the doors were always open—a Christian refuge in the city of Duluth. Acting on his advice, and assisted by a letter of introduction, she went to the place and today leads a respectable life under the influence of a Savior. Did not the One of Nazareth say unto such, "Go, and sin no more?"
Such is the condition that confronts the missionary in the towns and villages near the camps. You may ask, "Are not the spoilers unfriendly, antagonistic to the missionary, since they see that his work is in opposition to theirs?" While they recognize Mr. Higgins as against their nefarious traffic, yet they admire his sincerity and honesty, and prove their respect for him by calling for his services in case of death. They know that their business is under the ban, but they also know that his Christian zeal causes him to love the men while he is still an enemy to the business. In one of the saloons where the writer accompanied Frank Higgins, the saloon man asked us to take a drink of seltzer water.
"I wouldn't take even a drink of water in one of your saloons," replied Mr. Higgins. "You know I am against your whole business."
"We know it," returned the saloon man, "but while you fight us, you do it fair, and although you hurt us, we like you in spite of it."
So without enemies, even among his opponents, he goes from place to place, helpingpointing to Christ the lumberjacks, the saloon men, the gamblers and the prostitutes, doing a work few are fitted to do.
The logging camp mission work must of necessity be a disconnected one, and the missionary often does not see the final results of his labors as in a settled pastorate, but the churches reap the benefit of what is accomplished in the camps. Many are brought to Christ who would never have been touched by his saving power if it had not been for the itinerating work of the pineries. The church has too long neglected this large field. Now she is attempting to redeem the time, but the present effort is a small supply for such a large demand.
What is being done to counteract the influence that is thrown around the lumberjacks in the towns? At present there is practically nothing outside the two Bethels at Duluth, to help them, with the exception of a small effort in the way of reading rooms, and I know of only two of these, one in the town of Akeley, Minnesota, and the other in Bemidji, Minnesota. About a year ago Mrs. T. B. Walker and the M. E. Church of Akeley opened a public readingroom particularly for the mill hands and employees of the Red River Lumber Company. A little later Mrs. Thomas Shevlin established the Crookston Lumber Company's Club Room in the town of Bemidji. Here the men can congregate and read the papers and magazines provided. But these are lonely exceptions of helpfulness.
The particular need of the lumbertown is a well-equipped, furnished and up-to-date Bethel, for at present the only places open to the lumberjacks are degrading—tending to produce poverty of soul and of purse. The churches of these towns are not strong enough to carry on the work unaided. If the demands are to be met, outside help must be extended. The churches are willing, for the members see the need of Bethels, but their own work calls for larger finances than at present they are able to command.
If there is no place for him to enter except the saloons, then of course we must expect the lumberjack to go where he will find a welcome. Open a place where he can find rest apart from the tentacles of temptation and we shall have done our part, and the forester will do his. A Bethel will be to hima haven towards which his weary feet and hungering social nature will turn with readiness, and in many cases with more readiness than they now turn to the saloons. All men are social creatures; the lumberjack is no exception. He wants to be where his fellows are, to join in their conversations and to take part in their interests, but the saloon is the only place that furnishes a convenient rallying point.
"I don't like the saloon, I don't care to drink," said one, "but all the fellows who are willing to talk to me are there and I must go where they are." To meet the needs of the homeless the Bethel must be substituted for the saloon. Since something is bound to grow, plant a virtue where you uproot a vice.
The Bethel is not an untried theory, but a proven success. Where these institutions have been introduced they have been well patronized and great good has been accomplished. A gentleman of Duluth, Minnesota, told of being on the bowery in that city, and noticed a lumberjack looking at every sign as he passed along. The man wondered if he was having difficulty in findinga saloon where saloons were so numerous. Suddenly the woodsman's face lighted up as he came in sight of a building bearing the sign of "Branch Bethel," and as he entered he seemed to say, "Thank God, this is for me. Here I shall find friends."
Once such rest places are opened they can be made self-supporting, or very nearly so. The lodging part of the plan would pay a good return, an employment agency could be carried on that, in itself, would be very helpful both to the men and employers, and add to the profits, while the missionary and Christian woodsmen would advertise the effort and largely add to its support. But apart from this, the good they would accomplish can only be appreciated by those who know the present surroundings of the campmen in town. When temptation is reduced the increase in virtue is proportionate, where the stimulus to righteousness is given men must respond. To prevent evil is as much a Christian work as saving the fallen, and prevention would give less need for cure.
In the establishment of a system of Bethels in the logging centers there is a fine opening for Christian philanthropy. Themen who have made their fortunes through the labors of the woodsmen should be the first to look to the uplifting of the fallen men in their employ. In dollars and cents it would pay the lumber kings, and many of the difficulties now present in the employment of men would be gradually reduced. The lumbermen are becoming interested, but it is a work that calls forth the interest of every lover of humanity.