Title: The Lumberjack Sky Pilot
Author: Whittles, Thomas D.
Language: English
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Transcriber's note: Table of Contents added by Transcriber.



CONTENTS


       I.  The Lumberjacks and the Lumberjack Sky Pilot.      13

      II.  The Work at Barnum, Minnesota.                     33

     III.  In the Heart of the Logging District.              51

      IV.  The Lumberjack in the Camps.                       71

       V.  A View of the Camp Services.                       95

      VI.  Itinerating in the Camps.                         123

     VII.  Work in the Lumber Towns.                         153

    VIII.  Muscular Christianity.                            183

      IX.  The Field and Its Possibilities.                  223



[Illustration: THE LUMBERJACK SKY PILOT AND HIS TEAM, FLASH AND SPARK]



    THE
    LUMBERJACK
    SKY PILOT

    BY
    THOMAS D. WHITTLES

    CHICAGO
    THE WINONA PUBLISHING COMPANY
    1908



    COPYRIGHT,
    1908
    THE WINONA PUBLISHING COMPANY



FOREWORD


The intent of this little volume is not to glorify a man, but to
present the parish of the pines. Imagination has little part in its
pages, for the incidents are actual happenings and the descriptions are
taken from life. The condition of the foresters is really the theme,
although the title draws attention to the missionary. Because the Rev.
Frank E. Higgins has given himself devotedly to the men of forest and
river, I have chosen his experiences as hooks on which to hang the
pictures of pinery life. Mr. Higgins has labored with no thought of
fame, but with devotion to God and man; and so I write not to exalt the
missionary, but to introduce you to his interesting parishioners.

I have written with love because I know the Sky Pilot. I have written
with prayerful longing because I know the lumberjacks. If through
my unskilled effort you become interested in the isolated, wayward
woodsmen, I shall be fully repaid.

    March, 1908.      T. D. W.


        "Men who plow the sea, spend they may--and free,
        But nowhere is there prodigal among those careless Jacks
        Who will toss the hard won spoil of a year of lusty toil
        Like the Prodigals of Pickpole and the Ishmaels of the Ax."

            --_Holman Day._



INTRODUCTION

BY THE

REV. JOHN E. BUSHNELL, D. D.


It has long been felt by those familiar with the human side of the
forest life that its call should be heard, and that the efforts of
devoted hearts to minister to the peculiar needs of the men behind
the axe and the saw should be made known. This volume is a timely
response to that desire. Through a veritable forest of material the
author safely arrives with us at the camp-fire and heart-fire of the
lumberjack. Most writers must create their own heroes; ours found his
awaiting him, for God created Frank E. Higgins, the hero of this book.
It is just like God to make such a man when there is such a work to be
done. It shows us how busy Providence is in human affairs. The least we
can do in return is to know that man and get his message.

The dumb creatures of the wood have just now almost a superfluity of
exponents and disciples. The humanity of the woods is just beginning
to have its champions.

The Lure of the Wild has long prevailed to call men forth to kill, or
prospect, or sin, but in a lovelier guise it will possess the readers
of this book to make them enter the Wild to pity, love, and save.
To most of them this narrative will come as a surprise. It may even
raise the question of possible exaggeration as to the extent of human
suffering and degradation involved in the simple task of felling the
forests to meet the needs of a growing nation. To those, however, who
have been over the trail, it will appeal as a moderate but faithful
picture of scenes of intensest pathos and tragedy which are but
commonplace in the parish of the Sky Pilot to the Lumberjacks.

The fierceness with which evil hunts its human prey, and makes strong
men of our own day and nation no better than the old galley-slave,
toiling to enrich their brutal masters, can be only partially set forth
in the limits of these pages. We shall all be made better neighbors
to our homeless brothers in the wilderness by following Mr. Whittles'
surprising and fascinating story and by walking in the footsteps of
the modest missionary of the Cross, of whom he writes, on his round
of mercy through camp and brush, for whose zeal the winter's blast is
never too severe, and whose love for souls melts a pathway through
drifted snow. We shall be reminded afresh of how rough is the work and
how great the human sacrifice by which the wants of civilization are
satisfied. We shall also be moved to resolve that the amount of the
vicarious suffering of men for this end shall be reduced of all that
portion of it that comes through our indifference and the activity of
evil. This narrative adds a unique and valuable chapter to the records
of our country. It will be read with gratitude by every one, who for
whatever cause seeks wider knowledge of his fellowmen. Most of all will
it appeal to the Christian hearts of our land to whom these men of the
woods will seem as brothers, having more than their share of life's
hardships and temptations and less than their share of its privilege
and its opportunity.

It is most earnestly to be hoped that it may reach all the homes
of our land and cause them to rest a while from the fiction of the
hour, that, in the glow of these human realities, stranger than
the inventions of fancy, we may learn henceforth to suffer in the
afflictions of our exceptional members and relieve the conditions which
make them helpless without our aid.



    THIS
    LITTLE BOOK
    I LOVINGLY DEDICATE
    TO SARAH.
    MY WIFE.



CHAPTER I.

THE LUMBERJACKS AND THE LUMBERJACK SKY PILOT.


While I waited for a train, a woodsman entered the station. He was
dressed in a rough Mackinaw jacket; coarse socks held his trousers
close to his legs, and on his hands were heavy woolen mittens.
Everything proclaimed him to be a man of the camps.

"Hello, Jack," I said in greeting, "how were the woods this winter?
Anything new in the camps?"

Jack jammed the Peerless into his strong-smelling pipe, struck a match
and replied: "Snowed so blank hard that half the gang jumped the job,
and us fools that stayed worked up to our necks trying to get out the
stuff. This winter was Hades, but not quite so warm--no, not by a
jugfull. Why say, neighbor, in our camp the whisky froze up and kept
the bunch sober until we got a new supply."

He paused, looked me over, and began again:

"You're a preacher, ain't you?"

"I am," I replied.

"Well, then, here's news you'll enjoy. We're all thinking of joining
the church--us fellows in the camps. Funny, ain't it? The gospel
sharks are in the tall timber and are getting bags of game that would
shame a pot hunter. The cloth has donned overalls and is preaching at
us. Savvy, Preacher?--we've actually got so civilized that they're
preaching at us God-forsaken lumberjacks. How does that strike you for
news?"

He paused to see the effect this intelligence was having on me, then
continued:

"The sermons we get are the real thing. No sun-proof paint on them,
no 'by-your-leave,' but the straight goods, the pure stuff--chips,
bark and timber. Everything we get is government sealed, punk proof,
top-loaded and headed for the landing--which is us. It all comes our
way and we hold our noses and take the medicine. What party do you
happen to hitch to?"

"Denomination?" I asked, "I am a Presbyterian."

"Good! So am I. I don't happen to belong yet, but if they keep on
hewing to the line, I'll have to join--or hike. Our Sky Pilot, Frank
Higgins, belongs to your crowd. Probably you know him?"

"I have known him a long time," I replied.

"Shake! If you're a friend of his you'll do. He's onto his job, and if
this keeps up, the guy that splashes ink on the church roll will be
kept busy adding our names. There's my train."

He was gone. May the day soon come when the half jesting prophecy of
the lumberjack will be fulfilled.

       *       *       *       *       *

Stately and green is the forest of the North Star State. From Lake
Superior the great pineries of Minnesota extend unbroken until the
fertile silt of the Red River Valley limits the growth of the pines.
Two hundred miles is the width of the forest and the evergreen covers
the northern half of the state. This is "the woods" of Minnesota--the
center of the logging industry.

About five hundred camps mar this beautiful region with their rude
shacks and temporary shelters, some of them being scores of miles from
the permanent settlements. During the winter months twenty thousand
men labor in the scattered camps of this vast territory, removing
the growth of ages that the farms and cities may have comfort and
protection. The primeval forest has been invaded, and on the zero air
of the north the ring of the ax, the tearing of saws and the strange
oaths of the teamsters mingle with the crash of falling trees.

The workers of the forest are called lumberjacks. In all the country
there is scarcely a more interesting group of men--interesting
because so wayward and prodigal in life and habit, while their forest
home appeals to every leaf-loving soul. They are the nomads of the
west--farm hands and railroad constructionists in summer, woodsmen in
winter--with no settled abode, no place they call home. A few years
ago Michigan claimed them; later their habitat was in the forests of
Wisconsin; now the woods of Minnesota is their rendezvous.

[Illustration: LUMBER CAMP IN THE LONG, LACE-LIKE NORWAYS]

The typical lumberjack is a man of large heart and little will. He sins
with willing freedom, because he has almost lost the power to check
his evil desires, and it is so easy to yield to the vultures who make
sin convenient and righteousness hard. The saloon and brothel are ever
alluringly near, while the church and bethel are slow to approach. The
harpies of sin wait at every turn to prey upon the woodsman--though
they damn his soul it matters not, if they obtain the cash.

The railroads push their iron arms into the heart of the wooded lands,
and the villages follow the railways, desiring to be near the camps
for the trade they bring. Almost without exception the first places
of business are the saloons, to which are attached the outfits of
the gamblers, and conveniently near are the places of shame. One new
town in the pineries had between forty and fifty saloons (forty-six
I believe is the number), five large brothels, and the gambling
hells were many, yet the population of the place was little over two
thousand. It was evident to the casual visitor that its chief industry
was to separate the campmen from their earnings by preying on their
weaknesses. Another village is beautifully situated at the junction of
two rivers. All around it is well timbered land, and from the nature
of the soil the place is destined to be of importance in the coming
years, but at the time of this writing the village with its adjacent
territory only contains a population of about two hundred. The village
has less than a dozen houses, but six saloons do a thriving business
and the brothel has appeared. You ask where the places obtain their
patronage? From the camps. The foresters are the source of profit;
the population of the town would not be able to keep one saloon in
business. Nor are these solitary instances. The same conditions are to
be found in almost every hamlet and village in the woods. Day and night
they ply their sinful trade, and soon the gold, which the lumberjack
risked his life to win, jingles in the coffers of the shameless or
gleams in the till of the saloon or gambling hell.

Sunday is the harvest day of iniquity. The men are released from labor
and pour into the villages to spend the hours of rest. The wheel,
whisky and women separate them from their earnings, and like the
withered leaves of autumn the strong wielders of the ax and canthook
fall easy victims. One night "to blow in the stake," regrets for a
moment--then back to the loneliness of the winter woods again. He is
said to be a poor lumberjack who can keep his wages over night.

Jack is not always a willing victim. Often by knockout drops he is
reduced to insensibility and robbed. He may complain of the treatment,
but he is helpless through lack of evidence, and is told to "go up
river," or is hustled unfeelingly out of town. "He's only a lumberjack
and is better off when all in." This is all the sympathy the Ishmaelite
receives. No place is open to him except the one he should avoid. The
churches are too weak to meet the large demands, and so no place of
refuge opens its doors of hope to the prodigal. The balm of sympathy
comes to him limitedly; humanity is as cold as the frozen streams
of his winter's retreat. Civilization is viewed only as a place of
unbridled license where the law favors the spoiler. God is dead. Christ
is only a word of convenient profanity. The church has forgotten the
prodigal while caring for the souls of the saved. Thus he views life.
In his wretchedness he labors for the keepers of the gates of death
and is satisfied, if, by the sweat of his brow, he can win an hour of
forgetfulness in the place of riot and shame.

No picture was ever painted so dark as to exclude all light. God made
it so. Even in the neglected sons of the lumber-camps is seen a hopeful
ray--for their hearts are as rich in charity as their lives are dark
with sin. Their sympathies can easily be touched. It is through the
open freedom of their generous nature that the reforming power of the
gospel can enter. The only remedy for the campmen is the sustaining
power of the Man of Nazareth. When they shall learn to know the Christ
of God as the Savior of men, the darkened lives of the foresters will
be transformed, and the fruits they shall bring forth will be the
wished for deeds of righteousness.

When the Rev. Francis Edmund Higgins, the Lumberjack Sky Pilot, began
his work among these neglected Ishmaelites, no religious society was
making an effort to raise the moral and spiritual condition of the
campmen. The Catholic church, then as now, devoted itself to the
hospital work in the nearby towns, but no denomination invaded the
camps to lead the bunkmen to right living. At the time of this writing
the Presbyterian church is the only religious organization having
special missionaries in the lumbercamps.

Regardless of denominational prejudice, the work of Frank Higgins
appeals to the whole Christian church, not only on account of its
peculiar type, but also because of the interesting man conducting it.
Fitted by nature and training for his work, he is striving with heart
and hand in a large and lonely field. He is the pastor of a large and
scattered flock which for long and weary years has known no shepherd.
Depraved men are being reached, lifted and kept for God through
him--men alone are his parishioners.

Seldom is a pastor more beloved by his people. The rough but kindly
hearts of the lumberjacks go out to this fearless minister who
self-sacrificingly breaks the bread of life to the husk-fed prodigals
of the far north country. The lumberjacks will fight for their Sky
Pilot; and even the ranks of the enemy--the saloonmen, the gamblers,
the brothel keepers--are compelled to admire this earnest Christian
minister who is valiantly fighting a hard battle for God and
righteousness.

The Rev. Frank Higgins is a resolute character, full of zeal and
undaunted courage. God gave him a strong body and he is using it for
the Giver. That rare virtue we call tact, or sanctified common sense,
shows itself in all his dealings with men. False dignity is absent from
him, but the dignity of sterling purpose and determined endeavor is
ever present. He is no slave to custom, but is a man who does things in
his own way, and does them well. The title the loggers have conferred
upon him is one of affection; he is the Lumberjack Sky Pilot, and if
you heard his forest parishioners speak that name, you would realize
that his ordination was threefold--ordained of God, by the presbytery
and by the lumberjacks.

Frank E. Higgins was born in the Queen City of the West, Toronto,
Ontario, on the nineteenth day of August, 1865. He was the seventh
child to come into the home, but the only one to survive the
vicissitudes of infancy. His parents were both Irish, but his father,
Samuel Higgins, was born in the Dominion, and for some years prior to
his death kept a hotel in Toronto on the site where the Walker House
now stands. In this house Frank was born. Ann Higgins, the mother,
first saw the sun in the Ulster settlement of Ireland, her parents
bringing her to Canada when she was four years old. Samuel Higgins died
when Frank was seven years of age.

Two years after the death of Frank's father, Ann Higgins married John
Castle, an Englishman, who shortly afterwards moved the family to
Shelburne, Dufferin County, Ontario. Here in the untouched wilderness
the settlers began to force an opening for cabin and crops. The country
was new. Few white families were near, but on the Higgins homestead
were several camps of Sioux Indians. The land was forest covered, the
towering cedar and hemlock stretched their graceful fingers heavenward,
the spreading maples delighted the eye, and the white robes of the
slender birch lent variety to the sylvan scene. With painful effort the
sentinels were felled and squared for cabin and sheds, and fields of
grain succeeded the fallen forest.

The companions of Frank Higgins were the children of the Sioux Indians,
whose tepees were near the homestead. With the children of the Indians
he took his lessons in woodcraft, learned to draw the bow, or
childishly labored at the tasks of the growing braves. One of his early
recollections is of secretly carrying a loaf of bread from his home to
trade with an Indian youth for bow and arrows. Perhaps the subsequent
strapping he received had something to do with the permanency and
vividness of the recollection. For three years the Indians were his
constant playmates. From the warlike Sioux, fearlessness was imbibed,
their love of the forest became his, and an ineffaceable delight in
tree and stream was stamped in the character of the growing boy. "I
feel it now," he said to me, but recently when we were in the city
together, "I want to get back to the solitudes where the trees have
voices and every stream a story. I love the camps rather than the
cities. I have never passed from my boyhood love--my first love--the
trees, the hills, the brooks. In the pineries I feel as if I were a boy
back in the old days again."

[Illustration: STEAM-JAMMER AT WORK]

These were days of gold and purple when the child was learning the
mysteries of life, days of ceaseless roaming in which nature taught her
truths through leaf and twig, through dew and whispering breeze. He
was nature taught--all that touches "the wild and pillared shades"
belongs to his free, frank nature. Unknowingly he was beholding the
beauty of his future kingdom and unconsciously equipping himself for
the years of zealous toil among the white nomads whose weapons are the
ax, the saw and the peavey--a change in equipment and complexion, with
the same stage setting.

Few school privileges came to the forest lad. When he should have been
at his studies there was no school to attend; when the school came,
only brief periods were allowed to him. At twelve he took his place by
his stepfather's side and assisted in supporting the family. Every hand
was needed, and the boy's little counted for much. There was ground to
clear of trees and underbrush, there were rails to split and fields to
fence, and in the winter logging, claimed his labor for the cash it
gave in return.

Dufferin County could offer few advantages in those days. Its sparsely
settled condition meant absence of amusements and communal privileges.
Most of the new settlers were of English blood, and while they were
willing to stint and sacrifice, yet they demanded the presence of the
church. A church was organized near the Castle home, to which John and
Ann Castle gave their united support. Frank's stepfather was a godly
man, in whose life was reflected the spirit of our Master's teaching.
Service and fellowship were the watchwords of the home. Of material
wealth the cabin could not boast, but in spiritual gifts its occupants
were far from poor. It was largely through these examples of Christian
living that Frank Higgins acquired a knowledge and interest in the
things of God.

When Frank was eighteen years old a wave of religious awakening swept
through the community, and the stepson of John Castle was one of the
first to surrender to the Master. Immediately he interested himself
in the welfare of his companions, doing personal work among them. The
result was that most of his companions joined the company of believers.
These young men then organized a semi-weekly prayer meeting in the
schoolhouse and Frank Higgins led the first meeting. Nine of those who
attended those prayer meetings have since gone forth to preach the
everlasting Gospel. There must have been good stuff among the settlers
of Dufferin County.

The ministry always had its charms for Frank Higgins. Long before
he united with the church, the desire to preach had possessed him.
Many were the sermons he delivered to the cattle, stumps and trees,
while going the rounds of his daily labor. On one occasion the
stepfather and hired man hid behind the stumps that they might receive
edification from the discourses that so often wasted their sweetness
on the desert air. Unaware of their presence, Frank worked a while,
then, laying aside his ax, mounted a log and began his sermon to the
stumps. Vigorously he chided them for their inactivity. Emphatic were
the woes he pronounced upon them who were at ease, while the harvest
called loudly for workers. Enthusiastically he bade the stumps march
forward and with unsheathed sword take possession of the Promised
Land. The hidden ones, suppressing mirth that almost injured them,
silently thrust their heads above the hiding place and looked with
forced solemnity at the big, lonely preacher. So unexpected was their
appearance, that he, who a moment before was willing to lead an army
of stumps to victory, retreated to the cover of the forest, pursued
by the convulsing laughter of his friends. Years afterwards, when
commenting on the above incident, he said: "You see, it was a sermon
to men after all. I had intended it for stumps, but it produced action
among men." He laughed.

Men have always been his auditors. From the time of his stump sermon
they have listened to his story of the Cross, and today among the
stumps of the pineries he preaches with results that cause the angels
to laugh in gladness.

At the age of twenty Frank Higgins returned to Toronto, the city of his
birth, where he resided with relatives. He there entered the public
schools, taking up the studies which the conditions in Dufferin County
prevented him from acquiring in boyhood. It took courage to enter
the sixth grade of the city schools, a big brawny man among babes.
Unaccustomed to cities and civilization, he felt ill at ease away from
his native woods. His hands were better acquainted with the ax than
with the pen and pencil, but he stuck to his task while the blush of
shame mounted his cheek as he sat among the little children of the
grade. His teachers did not find him an apt scholar, but they bowed
before the originality of his untutored mind.

Three years were spent in the grades and two in the high school, after
which he left the Dominion of Canada and came to Minnesota, at the age
of twenty-five.

In the fall of 1890 he began lay preaching in the Methodist
Episcopal church at Annandale, Minnesota, and for two years labored
in that field; doing very successful work. He was fortunate in the
companionship of Dr. A. M. Ridgeway, a young physician who had recently
begun to practice in the village. This friend did all he could to cover
the defects of the frontiersman and to aid him to self-improvement.
It was largely through Dr. Ridgeway's persuasion that Higgins gave up
his work at Annandale and went to Hamline University to continue his
studies. For two years he applied himself to books, but owing to the
scarcity of funds he was compelled to preach on the Sabbaths, and the
small salary thus obtained helped to support him in the University.
The name of the late Rev. L. M. Merritt, of Onesta M. E. Church,
Duluth, Minnesota, is held by him in revered memory for the timely
encouragement and assistance rendered him at this period.

In 1895 the way opened for him to enter the service of his mother
church. The Presbyterian Church at Barnum, Minnesota, was offered to
him and the layman found himself in the denomination of his youth. The
work at Barnum, Minnesota, changed the whole course of his life.

[Illustration: RIVER CREW ON LAKE BEMIDJI]



CHAPTER II.

THE WORK AT BARNUM, MINNESOTA.


The new field to which Mr. Higgins went was a lumber town. Barnum,
Minnesota, had a population of less than four hundred, but the nearby
lumber camps added considerably to its business interests. The
Presbyterian Church at that place was weak, and when Presbytery sent
the young Canadian there to advance the cause of Christ, it also took
him under its care as a student for the ministry, and assigned studies
suited to his special case.

At Barnum, Frank Higgins first came into touch with the loggers of
Minnesota. On all sides were the camps crowded with men who felled the
forests during the winter, and in the spring floated the logs over lake
and river to the large sawmills farther south.

Shortly after he changed his residence to the lumber town, he went with
several friends across the country to where the river drivers were at
work on the Kettle River drive. It was spring. The ice-locked lakes and
rivers were once more open, and now the accumulated logs that had been
placed on the icy lakes and streams were floating with the current to
the city mills.

After several hours traveling through a rough and new country, parts
of which were cut over lands, scenically uninviting, the party arrived
at the point of the river where the men, who, in the parlance of the
loggers are called "riverpigs," were at work. In midstream the men were
sacking logs with peavey, or directing with pike pole. From log to log
the skillful drivers leaped, now riding on the huge timbers, now wading
in the shallows, or following the logs from the shore. It seemed an
easy thing to do, to ride the swift moving logs, but only a master can
keep his place on the unsteady, rolling steed.

In a bend of the river, below the place where the drivers were working,
the large flat-boat called the wannigan, was tied. The wannigan is
a floating bunkhouse, cookshed and store combined. In it the men
make their home during the drive. The supper hour was near when the
visitors arrived at Kettle River; the journey had been long, so the
disturbing blast of the cookee's horn was a welcome sound. In response
to the call the rivermen hastily made for shore, and headed for the
grassy place near the wannigan. The example of the workers was followed
by the visitors, who helped themselves to iron knives and forks, tin
spoons, cups and dishes. The wet drivers sat around the campfire and
ate with a heartiness that comes from a life spent in "God's own open
air."

The men lounged about the fire after the meal, and the topics of the
village and the happenings of the river were discussed. Just as the
sun was tossing back his lingering kisses at the sleepy forest and
ever wakeful river, the riverpigs requested Mr. Higgins to give them a
gospel service. It was a surprising request, coming from such a source,
for the river drivers looked and acted as if they cared not for these
things. The preacher had heard their fluent profanity as they directed
the logs, and when they asked for the gospel he could not veil his
surprise. But the request was in harmony with the hour. Nature was
worshiping. The solemn hush of the evening was upon tree and stream and
even the ceaseless babble of the river came only in whispers. Man felt
a desire to join in the Creator's praise, and where is there a better
sanctuary than in the cloistered halls of the greenwood, on the banks
of a crystal stream?

Taking a log for a platform, unaided by Bible or hymn book, Mr. Higgins
began the service. "Nearer My God to Thee" was the hymn, and the men
of the pickpole joined heartily in the song, "Jesus Lover of My Soul;"
they sang until it seemed that the sunset joined in the praise and
the trees of the field clapped their hands in timely melody. Over
the running river the tall pines caught up the music and bowed in
reverence, while the echoes answered back, "Oh, Receive My Soul at
Last."

With what supreme interest the men about the camp-fire listened to the
old, old story of Christ who loves the wanderer! The shades of night
fell low upon the darkening earth while the preacher spoke of The Light
of The World, and the men sat wrapped in thoughts of things they had
forgotten or never known. Recollections of the home tree came back to
some, and the sweet lullaby of a mother stole into minds long forgetful
of home and other days. At the spring of boyhood they drank again, and
the counsels of youth came with hallowed sweetness to the men seated in
the playing shadows of the dying fire.

Faces long strange to tears were furrowed. Wishes were born that later
became realities of good. Like a voice from another world came the
benediction to the group about the bright glowing embers. From across
the stream the echo floated back, and the "amen" of nature came like a
mother's tender prayer.

On the morrow when the visitors were returning, several of the rivermen
went to the preacher and spoke of the pleasure they had derived from
the service.

"We're away out here in the timber and it ain't often the church comes
our way," said one.

"If some preacher would come here once in a while, he could give us a
lift. The Lord knows we need it," added another.

"Can't you come and give us a turn?" they asked.

In response to the extended invitations, Mr. Higgins often went to the
drive on Kettle River. An appreciative audience was always waiting--an
audience that would gladden the heart of any minister who was anxious
to deliver God's message.

Prior to his visit to Kettle River, Mr. Higgins had never been on the
drive. Everything about the work was new to him, but he joined the
riverpigs on the stream, and added to their merriment by his unskilled
attempts at logdriving. Taking the long pickpole, the preacher mounted
the floating log, while every driver looked out of the tail of his eye
for the soon-coming moment when "his reverence" would descend to the
depths--"so far," said one of the men, "that he would draw down the log
with a suction." In the midst of their work the drivers shouted advice
and encouragement.

But a laugh does not deter a man like Frank Higgins. The love of the
forest and river was in his blood, and the strong body and determined
will welcomed the difficulties of the river. Even the discomforts of
a sudden bath did not cool his zeal. He believed that if these men
were to be his hearers he must know how to appreciate their labors,
and that appreciation could only be acquired by passing through
the intricacies of the calling. So skill came with practice, and a
knowledge of the drive after many sudden descents into the flowing
waters.

This was a part of the equipment for ministering--a strange
preparation--but men whose labors demand strength of limb and skill
of body are more likely to listen to him who can prove his physical
ability. In the estimation of some, manual labor may not preserve
the dignity of the cloth, but it adds to the dignity of the man. The
lumberjacks and rivermen have no admiration for him who is fearful of
hardship, or succumbs before the strenuous labor which they themselves
must daily perform. The pineries is no place for weaklings, nor the
drive for the fearful. Among these men physical prowess wins where
mental powers fail to get a hearing, but the combination of both,
backed by a strong desire to serve, is a combination sure of success.

"When you are in Barnum I want you men to remember me," said the
preacher to the drivers. "My home and church are open to you. You are
just as welcome as the people of the village."

Shortly after the above invitation the boys came to town. It was
Sunday, and the hour of the morning service. Three big rivermen entered
the church and took seats in the rear of the building. They were
dressed as the necessities of their vocation require, flannel shirts
resplendent in fighting colors, broad belts, and heavy spike-soled
boots. It was no small sensation their presence created. Barnum was a
lumber town, but although accustomed to the lumberjacks and drivers, it
had never seen them in church. The saloons were their known retreats.

Before beginning the service Mr. Higgins went down to the drivers and
bade them welcome.

"We thought we'd drop in and see if you'd make us as welcome in the
gospel shop as we made you in the bunkhouse," said the spokesman. "I
guess he has, Bill," he said, turning to his friend.

After that they came to the little church whenever they sundayed in
town. With the trio came others, for they knew they would be hospitably
received. This proved to the minister that the man who wants a larger
parish has only to remove the fence that encloses his present one.

As often as his pressing duties would allow it, the missionary followed
his new found flock. The distance was great to Kettle River, yet he
walked to the camp that service might be held on the bank of the
stream. From the memories of the men who heard and of him who preached,
the pleasure of those sunset gatherings will never be effaced. Kettle
River drive was more fruitful than preacher or logger dreamed.

Although Mr. Higgins grew to manhood in a timber country, yet he never
had visited a large lumbercamp until the winter following his residence
at Barnum. In his youth he had logged in the forests of Dufferin
County, Ontario, but the lumbering was on a small scale--it was only
the logging of farmers. Around Barnum, Minnesota, the camps were
operated by the lumber kings of the west. The winter's cut was counted
in millions of feet, not by hundreds or thousands.

In the fall of 1895 a delegation of lumberjacks came to the Sky
Pilot's home in Barnum and asked to be taken into the circle of his
ministration.

"We need you just as much as the camp of drivers you preached to in the
spring," they said, and they looked the part they professed.

Camp after camp petitioned for his services, and so the work grew until
all the logging camps around the village were receiving occasional
services from the unordained man who served the Presbyterian Mission
Church at Barnum. The field was large, white for a willing harvest, but
the laborers were few, few indeed--only one.

Mr. Higgins had recently married, and through the union encouragement
and effectiveness was given to his work in village and camp. In October
of 1895 Mr. Higgins was married to Miss Eva L. Lucas of Rockford,
Minnesota. Miss Lucas was an active church worker in her own town, and
after her marriage the bride often went with her husband to the filthy
camps and furnished music on the little portable organ. Her presence
was appreciated by the foresters, and with the lead of the organ the
music was bettered.

These were days of exacting labor and little pay. In his spare moments
Frank Higgins was trying to supplement the loss of university and
seminary training, and the midnight lamp glowed in the study as he
sought to prepare himself for ordination. There were sermons to
prepare, calls to make, the dead to bury, and a thousand unexpected
duties that are ever attendant on a village pastorate. But louder than
all the demands was the ever increasing Macedonian cry from the camps
for services and assistance. So much to be done and so little one could
do in comparison to the demand! Frank Higgins never asked for "flowery
beds of ease." His physical strength was unlimited, and he loved action
rather than repose. With the joy of a strong man he attacked his work
and found an increasing happiness in duty done. A few days after one of
his visits to the camps, two lumberjacks came to his door.

"We want you quick," they said, "we've brought one of the boys from the
camp to his homestead. He's asking for you. He's a very sick man."

In company with the woodsmen Mr. Higgins went through the forest to the
log cabin of the homesteader. The doctor had just arrived. Turning to
Mr. Higgins, the physician said:

"If we could get him to St. Luke's Hospital in Duluth there would be a
chance for him. He cannot obtain the necessary care here in his shack."

Mr. Higgins volunteered to accompany the sick man. They bundled the
patient snugly into a sleigh, drove to the depot, and in a short time
were in the hospital.

Only a few minutes passed before the physician in charge came to Mr.
Higgins and said:

"There is no chance for your friend's recovery. You had better break
the news to him, for he is beyond our help."

Gently, tenderly, the rough camp preacher told the dying man of his
condition and asked him to make preparation for the nearing end.

[Illustration: A SMALL CONGREGATION]

The lumberjack looked up at the weeping minister, and smilingly said:
"Thank God you came to the camp that night. I heard you preach of a
Savior, and all my being longed to know him. It was the first time in
twenty years I had heard the gospel. I was raised in a Christian
home, and that night all the lessons of childhood came back to me. When
the lanterns were put out, and the bunkhouse was silent, I got on my
knees and prayed the forgiving God to forgive the past, and make me a
better man. That night Jesus Christ brought his strong salvation to me,
and I was forgiven." He paused through weakness and was still, then
opening his eyes, now clouded with the mists of death, he looked at the
minister.

"Brother Higgins, go back to the camps and tell the boys of my Savior.
Go back and tell the old story to the lumberjacks. They need you worse
than the towns do. Tell them of Jesus who can make them live, go back
to the lonely camps." He ceased to speak. More feebly came the breath,
and soon the spirit returned to the God who gave it.

The minister was left with a problem greater than any he had yet
attempted to solve. In the corridors of the hospital he walked through
the long night, carrying a sense of duty and sacrifice he had never
known before. "Can it be possible that God wants me to take up this
work?" he asked. "Has God spoken his will through the dying man?"
Ambition rebelled against the sacrifice; fond wishes refused to be set
aside, but with every tempting prospect came the command of the dying
man, "Go back to the boys and carry the story of Jesus." It sounded
clearly. No man could misunderstand it. That night all his plans were
changed. Ambitions, such as come to all young men, were swept away.
The large pulpits of which he had dreamed were superseded by the log
or barrel which held the Bible in the camp services, and the future
audiences were men rough clothed, rough visaged, who dwelt not in homes
of opulence, but slept in the hay-filled bunks in the log camps. That
night in the hospital he consecrated himself to the service of God in
the logging camps.

He now began to look about the field in which his life work was to
be done. The extent of the field and the intensity of the need was
appalling. While there were Christian men in the camps, and many whose
lives were moral, yet these were few in comparison to the crowd who
wasted their lives as did the younger son in the parable.

Ordination was now his great desire, for he wished to go to the men as
one who could minister to all their spiritual needs. But ordination was
far off. The studies were not completed, and would not be for several
years.

The spring after his decision, he was surprised on entering his home to
find it filled with a crew of lumberjacks who were returning from the
camps.

"Mr. Higgins," began the spokesman, "We've dropped in today to tell you
how we've enjoyed the preaching in our camp. The boys want me to make
a spiel, but the saw is more in my line. You've treated us white, have
given us more advice than we've digested, and never asked to see the
color of our money. But this is no one-sided affair. The boys have all
chipped in, and here's your stake for service rendered." As he closed
he handed the minister a check for fifty-one dollars.

In all his work the missionary had not asked for financial assistance.
The boys at first thought he was preaching for "what there was in it,"
but when he asked not for money, they realized that love and devotion
was the impelling cause. "The lumberjack is no cheap skate," so they
gladly gave in return.

Through the benevolence of the woodsmen, Mr. Higgins saw a new
possibility. He was willing to give himself to the work, but it was
necessary that living and incidental expenses should be met. How to
finance the mission work was the question, but now he saw the boys
would pay a large part of the attendant expenses if some one would
organize the work. The barriers were being removed; the doors were
opening. Only, ordination had yet to be received.

The work at Barnum was followed by his taking charge of a church in New
Duluth, where the mill hands formed a large part of the population.
Acquaintance with the men and their work led to an interest in him,
and soon the church was on its feet. The same success that was seen at
Barnum followed the New Duluth work, and after a short period of labor
there, he was asked to take the Bemidji church. Here in the heart of
the logging district the real work of his life began, for as never
before he learned the ways of the lumberjack.



CHAPTER III.

IN THE HEART OF THE LOGGING DISTRICT.


In the spring of 1899, Frank E. Higgins began his work in Bemidji. The
Home Missions Committee of Duluth Presbytery had invited him to assist
the little group of Christians in the new town, where assistance was
badly needed, for the place was in the heart of the logging district,
and was infamous for its traffic in evil. The hosts of sin were well
organized, but righteousness needed the encouragement of a strong man.

The Bemidji field was first opened to Christian work by Mr. S. A.
Blair, the Sabbath School missionary of Duluth Presbytery, in 1896. In
those days no railway reached the place, but the pine forest beckoned
to the logging companies and the Mississippi river offered an outlet
for the logs. Bemidji could only be reached by following the rough
trails through the swamps and around the hills from Walker, Minnesota,
thirty-five miles away. Most of the supplies were carried up the lakes
and rivers and toted over the portages to the new village.

When Mr. Blair started on his thirty-five mile tramp to Bemidji,
the Baptist denomination also decided to send a man to organize for
them. But the rains descended and the floods came, until the poorly
made roads were more impassable than ever. Not relishing the flooded
condition, the immersionist gave up the task--for once water interfered
with the Baptist growth. But Mr. Blair, prior to his conversion, had
been a lumberjack, and none of these things moved him. Wading the
depths and fording the streams, he at last arrived at the hamlet on
Lake Bemidji, and organized the work. Later a church was partly built
by Mr. Blair, and occasional services were held. It was to take charge
of this field that Mr. Higgins turned his steps to the north. He had
seen the conditions of the woodsmen in Barnum and other towns, yet
he needed the Bemidji experience to show him their real poverty of
soul, and their utter helplessness in the face of open, alluring vice.
Here he saw them at their worst, given over to shame, encouraged in
degradation. They were as sheep without a shepherd, a prey to every
spoiler and evil designer.

It would require one whose ability is far above mine to pen a picture
that would adequately set forth the low plane of life found in the
early days of Bemidji. Since that time it has changed for the better,
but it is still influenced by the past and is far from a moral Utopia.
Nature has done everything to make the place attractive and restful.
Lake Bemidji and Lake Irving are inviting sheets of water with a shore
line of nearly fifty miles. The great Father of Waters joins their
crystal bodies, and at the point of meeting the little city of Bemidji
is built. Every part of the city is pine-covered. Those who platted the
place removed only the larger trees, and the homes rest in the shelter
of the constant green. Like a huge emerald in a setting of purest
silver is the green sheltered city with its rippling lakes and flowing
river.

Nature had contributed lavishly, but when man came he brought with
him the defects of humanity and painted the fair location with the
blackness of unlicensed vice, filling the Eden of beauty with the
blight of Sodom. It was a town with a wide open policy, in which
saloons abounded, brothels flourished and gamblers worked unmolested.
It was known as one of the most shameless places in the state, and in
those days seemingly lived up to its reputation. The police force was
little more than a name, for the saloon men were "the powers that be."
It was to the interest of the liquor men that the town be run as wide
open as possible, and the business interests as represented by the
liquor sellers were far from the Puritan mould. A convenient double
blind was on Justice. The Law was roped and thrown. Rum was the real
owner of the town. It was above the Law. It was master.

Gambling was connected with most of the saloons and numerous devices
were in sight to attract the indifferent. Not satisfied with what
came to them, the runners of the saloons and dens went into the camps
to drum up trade for their respective places of business--creating a
sentiment that would induce the boys to visit their dens of vice.

The brothels were large and accessible, being near the center of the
town. In one of the places a large number of negresses was kept to
pander to the bestial instincts of the men.

It would be difficult to give a description of those early day
conditions. A citizen of the town remarked, "You can't put enough black
in the picture when you try to paint the early Bemidji." In justice
to the moral element of the place we must add that there were always
those who strove for better conditions, and the efforts they made have
met with some success, for the moral conditions of Bemidji in 1907 are
vastly superior to the conditions at the time of which we write.

It was early in 1899 when Mr. Higgins became a resident of Bemidji.
The Presbyterian church had been organized but a short time, yet it
was in a state of coma that was rapidly passing into death. Only
two members could be found. A church building had been erected, but
because of financial difficulties it had not been finished and was far
from attractive or comfortable. Frank Higgins' task was to find the
scattered adherents, then complete the building.

For want of a more suitable place of residence, the unfinished edifice
became the meeting place and manse combined. The few houses obtainable
were mostly rude shacks whose exteriors were covered with tar paper,
instead of weather boards, and even these temporary structures, poor
and inadequate, were hard to obtain.

During the early part of the Bemidji ministry, Marguerite, the only
child of Mr. and Mrs. Higgins, came to bless the parents' hearts and
add joy to the missionary home.

The years at Bemidji were strenuous, but successful. The unfinished
edifice was enlarged and completed during the first year of the
layman's work. The year following found him building the cozy manse,
while the membership grew with increasing steadiness. In connection
with the church at Bemidji was a station at Farley, and during the
third year a little chapel was erected there. By this time the Bemidji
congregation had outgrown the capacity of the building and in the
fourth year a more commodious and suitable church was built.

In these full years the camps had not been neglected. With the erection
of the numerous buildings, to which he had contributed manual labor
as well as superintendence, Mr. Higgins' hands were seemingly well
filled. In addition to these duties, however, he every winter gave his
personal attention to nine camps and regularly visited three of them
each week. The seven addresses a week, the miles between the camps, and
the pastoral calls consumed the hours, leaving no time for leisure and
idleness, while from all sides came the demands of the foresters for
religious instruction and services.

One morning when he returned from the camps, Mrs. Higgins told him of
an urgent call from the Sisters' Hospital. Hastily he went to the ward
and there found Will McDonald, a Highland Scotchman, at the point of
death. McDonald had met with a serious accident in the camps. The Sky
Pilot and the teamster were well acquainted. McDonald's boyhood days
were spent among the bonny hills of the homeland, in a quiet Christian
home. In early manhood he came to Minnesota and followed the winter
woods. There, amidst the rough life he forgot his early instruction and
traveled the ways to which temptation so readily pointed.

On entering the ward the preacher tried to cheer the dying man, but the
woodsman turned to him and said:

"It's no use, Frank, the jig is up. I've got to go. I'm nearing the
landing with a heavy load. Do you think I'll make the grade?"

He was a teamster and had hauled many heavy loads up the grade, and
now he was thinking of the unknown way he was traveling and the
possibilities of the journey.

"Yes, you can make the grade, Will, but you will have to look for
help," said the preacher.

"You mean I'll have to get another team of leaders to help me up the
grade?" he asked.

"That is it," said Mr. Higgins, "but thank God, McDonald, you have
the greatest Leader to give you a lift--the Lord Jesus Christ. Every
man he has helped has made the grade. Listen, Will, while I read you
something." Taking out his pocket testament, he read the story of the
prodigal, and how by the Father's help he made the grade. Then came the
strengthening text setting forth God's love for a lost world and the
needlessness of perishing. "Turn to him, Will, and the grade will be
easy."

Kneeling by the bed, the missionary prayed to the loving God for help,
asking that the poor broken prodigal might make the grade and safely
arrive at the heavenly landing. In the ward the other lumberjacks heard
the prayer, and while the tears fell over faces unaccustomed to them,
the boys uttered in silence a sympathetic prayer that Will McDonald
might reach the hill-top.

A few hours later Mr. Higgins called again at the hospital. The screen
was around the bed and by the side sat the sister of charity with book
and beads. The Sky Pilot knelt by the Scotchman's side, and when the
dying man saw the visitor a smile came upon his face.

"You're right, Frank, a great Leader is Jesus Christ. I couldn't have
made the grade without him. I needed his help, and he is strong. I'm
going up the grade easily, we're going to make it sure."

A moment more--the missionary bent close to catch the words, for
McDonald was passing rapidly away. "Tell the boys I've made the grade,"
he whispered, and with a smile was gone. He had left the valley; the
unfading green of heavenly plains was before him. He was with the great
Leader, through whose divine strength many a poor prodigal has made the
grade.

The Presbyterian church has always stood for an educated ministry.
The demands it makes of its candidates for ordination are of the
highest order, and it is well that this should continue. The system of
doctrine taught by it demands thorough preparation for the effort of
Presbyterianism has ever been directed to the intellect rather than to
the emotions. It believes that men should be educated into the Kingdom
rather than persuaded into it.

Ever since the night of consecration in St. Luke's Hospital, where the
dying man pleaded with him to "go back to the camps and tell the boys
of Jesus Christ," Frank Higgins had desired to devote all his efforts
to missionary work among the lumberjacks. He felt that he could labor
more successfully if he went into the camps as an ordained minister
rather than as a layman. There were many who felt that a layman could
do the work as effectively as an ordained man, and some even claimed
that a layman could do better work in such a field. Frank Higgins did
not agree with the latter, and results have proven the correctness of
his judgment. "The lumberjacks want no flunkey, but the real thing,"
as one expressed it. "We don't want a Sunday school teacher, but a
full baked Sky Pilot who has got all the degrees agoin'." Mr. Higgins
knew this, and wished to go to them as an ordained man, hence his
persistence in the pursuit of ordination.

Systematic Theology has its difficulties to the seminarian, but more
for him who attempts to master it alone. This and other studies
composed the task that Presbytery had placed before Frank Higgins,
and it was necessary that a knowledge of these be obtained before the
coveted "laying-on-of-hands" be granted. In the presence of his studies
he saw the handicap in which he was placed through lack of scholastic
training, and with the multitudinous demands of his large field he
lacked the time for mental attainments. The nearest Presbyterian pastor
was ninety miles away, so he could look for little assistance from that
quarter. He could not get advice and instruction from others, he must
labor alone.

For seven long years he struggled with his studies, often with
disappointing results and with the feeling that it would never be
said of him as of Paul, "much learning doth make thee mad,"--although
his unsuccessful attempts to acquire the desired learning threatened
to this end. Time and again the Presbytery refused to grant the
petitioner's request for ordination. Meeting after meeting he came
before them for examination, but still they did not feel that they
could solemnly set him aside to the work of the Christian ministry.
The action of the Presbytery must not be misunderstood. The members
saw the lack of training, the mental defects of the man, the rough
exterior of the petitioner--for there was little about him to suggest
the pulpit--and while they loved and admired the hearty, consecrated
missionary, they hesitated to confer the rite of ordination upon him.
They were men who knew the standards of the church and felt that,
measured by the plumb-line of Presbyterian custom, he did not meet
all its requirements. They were only men, and as such were compelled
to judge by exteriors. It was not strange that they hesitated, for
the sentiment of the church is against the ordination of men who have
not qualified in the full course. Stones there are, however, that no
contrivance of man can make to shine, yet they fill a niche in the
building where a glazed surface would be a conspicuous defect. Such is
Frank Higgins. Try to polish him and he is still the same, but a rough
ashler is as necessary to the building as a smooth and perfect one.

One of his examiners asked him, "What seminary did you attend?"

"I never saw a seminary," he answered.

"What is your college?" was asked.

"My college is the Bible and yonder forest, as I believe God intended,"
he replied. "I do not ask for ordination because I am qualified by the
schools, but because God calls me, and there is a work waiting for me."

According to custom, the candidate was asked to withdraw while the
discussion was held. For three hours the presbyters discussed his case
and when the vote was taken the desired privilege was withheld.

Later in the session, in his remarks before the gathering, Mr.
Higgins said: "I need not tell you that the decision of this body
is disappointing, for I have long desired the boon of ordination.
During the last seven years I have appeared before you many times,
and asked to be set aside to the ministry. I know my insufficiencies;
no man can know them better. I do not blame you for with-holding
"the-laying-on-of-hands," but I was ordained of God long years ago to
preach the unsearchable riches of Christ, and although unsanctioned by
man, I shall still preach the message with which he has provided me. I
have asked ordination for the last time. I am satisfied with the call
of God. It is sufficient for me. I ask no more." While he spoke, the
spirit of God told of the inner life of the candidate and the brethren
saw the consecrated heart.

At a special meeting held shortly afterwards, the Presbytery
reconsidered its action, and Frank E. Higgins was ordained. While the
Presbytery had hesitated, it has never regretted its final action.
It has never ceased to rejoice in the labors of the determined,
undiscouraged man who amidst manifold labors and difficulties, worked,
waited and prayed seven years, like Jacob of old.

His oft-repeated prayer for ordination having been answered, he
looked to the camps as the field of his future endeavor. "Lord, open
the door," he had asked, and the door was opened. At the time of his
ordination the Bemidji congregation was building the new church. Mr.
Higgins helped in the manual labor. One day while he was shingling the
tower a boy brought him a letter requesting him to come to Winona Lake,
Indiana, and consult with the Evangelistic Committee relative to the
conditions in the logging camps. As a result of the conference Frank
Higgins was commissioned to take charge of this work in Minnesota.
The appointment was made in August, 1902, and with it came the real
opportunity for which he had waited since the night in the hospital.
He was going "to tell the boys of Jesus Christ."

Shortly after his return to Bemidji the Rev. Frank Higgins took a
strange ministerial, or rather, unministerial vacation. The woodsmen
of winter are farm hands, railroad constructionists and wanderers in
summer, and Mr. Higgins decided that he would acquaint himself with the
summer life of the men. His visits to the camps during the past seven
years had already given him a knowledge of their winter conditions.
Donning the clothes of a laboring man, he mounted a freight train and
started on a long western trip of quiet investigation. In western North
Dakota he labored for several days as a harvest hand, meeting many of
the men he had preached to in the Minnesota camps. From this place he
shipped with a gang of laborers and worked as a scraperman on a new
railway in Montana. Shortly afterwards he was with the pick and shovel
gang at The Dalles in Oregon, only to leave and work as a deck hand
on a boat going down the Columbia river. Portland, Oregon, ended his
western trip.

In all parts of his hobo trip he found the winter woodsmen, some
laboring, some leisurely passing the warm and sunny days in idleness.
Mr. Higgins visited the larger churches wherever he stopped and as a
workingman entered their doors to see the reception they would tender
to a man who apparently belonged to the wanderers. The trip broadened
his experience and gave an insight into the life of the nomads among
whom he was shortly to take up permanent work. He saw the life as
one who had lived and experienced a portion of it. He felt the pangs
of hunger, encountered the slights and rejections, the hardships and
lovelessness to which their lives were subjected, and out of the
knowledge came a broader sympathy, a more ready ability to help.

When he returned to Bemidji the new church was ready for dedication and
after a few weeks he left the pastorate to give himself wholly to the
twenty thousand men of Minnesota's camps. The field was ready and he
now became in reality, "The Lumberjack Sky Pilot."

[Illustration: FILLING THE WATER-TANK--THE STREET SPRINKLER OF THE
FOREST]



CHAPTER IV.

THE LUMBERJACK IN THE CAMPS.


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 to the 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 the center 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 favorite brand
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.

[Illustration: 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 botanists that 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
the title 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 of
logs 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 feet
        When I listen to the callin' of the pine."

There are lots of men who have followed the camps from boyhood. I met
one man who 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 to her. 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 fist is 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 left for 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 physical tactics 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
infernally quick. 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 exceptionally profane, 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 the power 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 gospel and
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.s were 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.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF BUNK-HOUSE]



CHAPTER V.

A VIEW OF THE CAMP SERVICES.


"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, evidences of 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, oppressive and 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,
and points 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 appealed to 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 worth having 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's labor--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 had been 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 of their 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 passed into a chorus of one
hundred voices. Out through the twilight of the morning the melody
rolled, waking the sleeping pines and crossing the frozen streams.
The men in the stables, harnessing their horses, heard the song and
softly whistled it; the cook, busy with his pots and pans, hummed in
unison, and the swearing cookee closed his profane mouth and listened
in wonder. Over in the office where the proprietor and others of the
higher grade of labor made their quarters, the song caused silent
amazement, for it did not seem like the morning hour of the camp, where
usually only profane sounds break the stillness.

"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 to undisturbed 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.
"But what 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 was a 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 seriously hurt 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
encouragement the 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.



CHAPTER VI.

ITINERATING IN THE CAMPS.


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.

[Illustration: 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 above the 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 often that 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
missionary replenished 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 not touch 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 I assure 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 guideth the
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 to seven 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 it was 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.
"I think 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. The result 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, if he 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 God and 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 Island Lake, 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.

[Illustration: 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 be killed, 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 cabins of 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.



Work in the Lumber Towns



CHAPTER VII.

WORK IN THE LUMBER TOWNS.


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 face we
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 way sadder, 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 their earnings 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 in my 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 with the 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 effluvium drove 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.

[Illustration: 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
and dispense 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 forth in 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 than the 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 address was 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 their places 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, helping pointing 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 reading room 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 him a 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 finding a 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. The men 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.

[Illustration: CLARK AND JACKSONS LANDING ON THE ST. LOUIS RIVER.
18,000,000 FEET]



CHAPTER VIII.

MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY.


Muscular Christianity has a rather far-off sound in this matter-of-fact
age where indifference is present and many a church is under the blight
of apathy. But on the part of the logging camp missionary there is no
apathy. His ministry is twofold: it is spiritual and muscular.

Let some one who is more interested in the dead past write the story of
the rough but earnest Crusaders, who fought in the name of the gentle
Christ with flesh-piercing spear and blood-letting sword. That is a
tale, foreign, distant and past; the narrative I bring is native, near
and present. This warfare is not with the weapons which are the product
of the fire and anvil, yet it is muscular and strenuous; its purpose is
not death, but life, and its spirit is love. The banner alone is the
same--the Sign of the Cross.

Physical fitness of no common order is required of the missionary of
the forest. In our northern pineries strength of limb, endurance and
hardiness are the necessary capital of the workers. When the frolicsome
winds drive the mercury thirty or forty degrees below zero and hold it
in that low retreat for days, the men who work under the open sky must
be vigorous to stand the taunts of the north wind and strong to resist
the fettering cold. The pineries is no place for weaklings, either as
pastor or logger. Brawn is an asset not despised, muscle is honored,
and endurance is the ideal of the lumberjack.

The city pastor finds that head and heart predominate in his work for
souls; the missionary of the logging camps soon realizes that the first
essential is bodily excellency--heart and head are secondary in the
estimation of the woodsmen. They pity a weakling, they respect a strong
man. But to strength must be added devotion if the man who comes as
Christ's messenger is to win. They will willingly listen to the rough
address of a rough and ready man who can fell a tree with precision and
ease; the argument of the man who is scientific of fist and nimble of
leg is sure of a ready reception.

It follows that the same kind of ministry we look for in the city is
not asked for in the camps. The object of the work is the same--the
souls of men--but the methods and means are more varied. The man of
tact soon sees that the body can be used to do a glorious work for the
King, and that he who is fearful of manual exercise cannot be a winning
ambassador for his Master.

Physical Christianity sounds like a story of the middle ages, but this
form of godliness is being used successfully to point men to Christ in
the great north woods. It is not forcing men to accept his teaching,
but doing with physical might for him whatever the hands find to do.

Of more value than discussion will be the narrative, and so I present
to the reader a few plain tales of the lights and shadows, the labors
and losses in the life of the missionary who spends his all for the men
who are far from civilization, far from Christ, lonely, wayward, rough,
but still our brothers for whom our Master died.

The village was little more than a collection of rude shacks. In its
confines two hundred people made their homes. Even in the logging
district one would search long for a place more under the influence of
open sin. The camps were near and the village traffic was evil--almost
exclusively evil. Nine saloons were the ornaments of the place and the
large brothel occupied a prominent place in the social life. There was
little in the village to commend, much to condemn. Its influence was
vicious and its efforts were to impoverish the campmen.

It was nearing the spring of 1905. The camps would soon break up for
the winter, and the Rev. Frank E. Higgins, while making his rounds,
found himself, after nightfall, in the village described above. The
lunchroom was in the rear of a saloon and there the missionary took his
belated meal. Many drinking lumberjacks were at the bar and soon they
crowded around the minister with invitations to drink with them.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, boys; if my dog will drink the stuff you
fellows are imbibing I'll drink with you," said Mr. Higgins.

He called his dog to him, and at his command Bess placed her front
feet on the bar, but on smelling the beverage turned away.

"Can't do it, boys; I'd hate to set a bad example to my dog. You had
better follow her lead. She has good sense, as you all know."

The men enjoyed the incident, and the tired preacher went to his room.
The sleeping place was over the barroom, but in spite of the carousing,
he was soon asleep.

Shortly after midnight the minister was awakened by a loud noise in the
room below. The sound of breaking glass and furniture, the curses and
cries of men rang loudly through the house. A fight was in progress
and it was evident to the missionary that it was more than a trivial
affair. Hastily he drew on some clothing and rushed down the stairway
which opened into the barroom.

In the middle of the saloon stood F----, a foreman from a nearby
camp. He was crazed with liquor and his powerful frame shook with the
excitement of the contest. Over his head he held a heavy barroom chair,
and lying near him were three men whom he had felled with the ready
weapon. The bartender had taken refuge under the counter and outside
of the open door were four lumberjacks who had fled into the cold,
but now inviting, street. F---- was in possession of the field and the
chair was both a weapon and a banner of victory.

"Canada against the world! The Scotch and nae ithers!" cried the
drunken logger in delight as he viewed the vanquished.

Rushing in, Mr. Higgins grabbed the foreman. "F----, think what you're
doing, old man. Do you want to kill some one?"

"A Hooligan struck me. Think of a Canadian being struck by a Hooligan!
Its mair than flesh an' bluid can stan'," replied the foreman as he
menacingly moved in the direction of the door where the enemy had
retreated.

"You can't afford to become a murderer because a man lost his temper,"
said the preacher. "Put down that chair and show that you can control
yourself, even if others can't."

Placing the chair on the floor, F---- watched Mr. Higgins assist the
others to their feet, but the men in the street did not venture into
the room until the preacher had led F---- up stairs.

The Sky Pilot took the foreman to his room, and when he saw him soundly
sleeping, crept in beside him and soon was lost to the day's tasks
and disturbances. But the missionary's sleep was not destined to be
undisturbed, for soon drunken oaths, the shriek of a terrified woman
and the heavy blows of an ax falling on a door made the preacher rush
from his bed into the hall, where he found the proprietor of the place
trying to break into his wife's room.

During the previous afternoon the proprietor's wife had learned that
her husband was in a disreputable place and had gone to the brothel to
persuade him to accompany her home. Her efforts were unavailing and he
remained there drinking and carousing until midnight. When he returned
home under the influence of liquor, his offended dignity sought
retaliation in the murder of his wife.

With the assistance of the bartender, who by this time had gotten over
his previous fright, Mr. Higgins disarmed the drunken proprietor and
led him into another room, where the missionary remained with him until
sleep held him fast.

The next day was the Sabbath. When the missionary had finished his
breakfast he placed his phonograph on the table of the roulette wheel
and started "Rock of Ages." The crowd of loungers had increased to a
considerable number by the time several selections had been played, and
when the song, "Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight," came to a close, it
was in a receptive mood. Portions of the Old Book were read and a heart
to heart talk followed.

The proprietor refused to serve any drinks while this strange service
was being held, and at the close of the meeting he asked the minister
to remember him in prayer.

Shortly after the affair in the saloon the Sky Pilot was in the camp
where F---- was foreman. It was the time when the annual offering was
to be given for the support of the mission work. Mr. Higgins arrived at
the hour of the evening meal and learned that the Sisters of Charity
had been in the camp at noon soliciting for the hospital work. When
the intelligence came to him he decided to defer his request for an
offering and visit the camp a few days later.

After service Mr. Higgins said to the men: "It was my intention to ask
you to contribute to this work tonight, but since the Sisters have
canvassed the camp today we will let it go until my next visit."

The preacher had scarcely finished the announcement when F----, the
foreman, sprang to his feet.

"Sit doon, Pilot," he said. "You dinna need to ask ony collection in
this shanty. We ken a guid thing an' are willin' to pay for't. I'll
tak' up the collection, although it's a new job to me. Shell oot, lads;
remember the Lord and F---- love a cheerfu' giver."

When F---- had completed his self-imposed task he handed the missionary
forty-seven dollars and fifty cents.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is persuasiveness in a well-rounded muscular development. Some
people are impervious to argument and some to courtesy, but few will
fail to respond to the persuasiveness of a strong man with a mighty
arm. Now I am not attempting to prove that this is best, nor would I
care even to leave that intimation, but I remember the days when the
rod properly applied was far more productive of good than all the
homilies--in fact, the homilies were heard only because of the birch
that, like Damocles' sword, was ever waiting to fall. But this is not
autobiography.

Some men remain children, and only the potentials that produced results
in childhood will aid to fruitage in their manhood. Corporal punishment
was effective for good then, and if you read the next incident you
will realize that it has its force after they have passed through the
vicissitudes of youth and have attained the physical weight of manhood.

The bunkhouse meeting was in full swing. The singing was hearty, strong
and free. When the lumberjacks wish to sing they produce a volume
that is inspiring in spite of discords. Well, these men in Parker's
Camp felt the spirit of song--but not all of them. An undertone of
discontent came from a group of Frenchmen who sat together at the end
of the shack. They did not relish the Protestant religion and intended
to show their indigestion. The majority of the camp was in harmony with
the preacher, but a small minority can easily turn peace into turmoil.

[Illustration: A CAMP CREW]

As the service progressed the opposition grew louder and remarks came
freely from the French end of the house. Mr. Higgins went to the
disturbers while the rest were singing and requested them to allow the
others to enjoy the service. A second time the preacher solicited
their sympathy and all went well until the address began. As the
missionary proceeded in his message the rumble of the disturbers grew
in volume until the address could not be heard. Patience was no longer
a virtue, but an assistant to evil. Rolling up his sleeves, for he was
preaching with his coat off, the minister left his barrel pulpit and
visited the Frenchmen, not as an angel of mercy, but as a son of Mars.
Taking a position that could not be misunderstood, he addressed them:

"You pea soup eaters will do one of two things," said the brawny
evangelist, "you are going to listen to the gospel or take a thrashing.
Speak up, which do you want?"

"Throw them through the roof, Pilot, we'll see fair play," cried a
sympathizer.

"Take them one at a time, they won't last long," came from another.
"Give them both the thrashing and the preaching," said the swamper.
"You've got to puncture the hide of that outfit to get any decency into
their heads."

Then came a deep silence. Only the winter wind outside and the roar of
the stove within were heard. During the quiet the Frenchmen carefully
viewed this muscular exponent of Christianity. On the preacher's
arms stood the muscles in rounded hills and in his face was depicted
determination and fearlessness. The examination was satisfactory;
it was easy to decide in favor of a gospel message under such
circumstances. The eyes of the Frenchmen dropped and the preacher had
won.

"I would rather preach anyway," said the minister as he walked back to
the barrel and took up the interrupted discourse.

Among the firm friends of the Sky Pilot that group of Frenchmen are now
to be found. The coatless figure, burning with righteous indignation,
powerful in right and backed with physical prowess, won the admiration
of the disturbers. Conviction and fearlessness always open a way for
him who is desirous of carrying the Cross. Even the opponents learn the
lesson of respect.

       *       *       *       *       *

On every fruit-bearing tree the worthless fruit clings with the good
and mellow. Every effort is not a success, as all can testify. Some
seed falls by the wayside and is trodden down. Again, the sower is
not even allowed to sow by the wayside. The devil is not dead and
his agents are faithful to their commander. As long as man is sinful,
opposition will show itself, but the darkness of night makes the day
more resplendent by contrast.

In the month of January, 1906, our missionary procured a letter of
introduction from the proprietor of a camp near Kelliher, Minnesota
to the foreman in charge. The letter gave Mr. Higgins the privilege
of holding service in the bunkhouse. Armed with this letter, and
accompanied by Mr. F. E. Davis, one of the camp workers, Mr. Higgins
entered the camp.

On arriving they went immediately to the office and left their personal
effects and a box of literature, and then proceeded to find the foreman
in order to present their credentials. Near the cookshed they came
across a burly Irishman who immediately bristled up and without waiting
for any greeting began:

"Are you Higgins?"

"I am," answered the missionary. "Is this--"

"I am G--," he interrupted.

"I was looking for you Mr. G--. I have a letter of introduction from
the proprietor," said the missionary, at the same time producing the
letter.

"I don't care a d--n if you have a letter from God Almighty," profanely
burst out the push; "you can't preach in this camp. Get your things out
of the office blank quick and get to Hades out of these works. I won't
have any blank preachers among my men."

Mr. Higgins looked at the profane man and quietly answered: "I am in no
haste about leaving, Mr. G--, in fact this camp has an added interest
since I met you."

"Get out, or I'll throw you to Hades out of here," said the wrathy
foreman.

"Not so hasty, Mr. G--," said the Sky Pilot. "I should be present
during the disturbances and some one might get hurt. Is your hospital
ticket good?"

While the minister looked at the cursing foreman he felt a strong
desire to enforce a lesson in common courtesy,--that part of the
foreman's education having evidently been neglected. But he thought,
if I should do this physical duty the lumberjacks who are my friends
will refuse to work for the foreman and the proprietor's kindness will
be repaid with loss. He therefore decided to forego the privilege of
improving the foreman's manner's, and for the proprietor's sake to say
nothing that would come to the ears of the lumberjacks.

When the missionaries left the camp Mr. G-- was not through with the
incident, for the foreman's remarks had been overheard by some of the
men and were soon the common property of the camp. The next day the
foreman went into the blacksmith shop, and not being over civil to
the vulcan in charge, was suddenly seized, dragged over the anvil and
kicked out into the snow by the wrathy smith. As G-- was gathering
himself up, the man of metals gave him an extra kick and accompanied it
with this enlightening remark:

"There, blast your Hades seared hide, is an extra one for the glad hand
you gave the Sky Pilot yesterday. You son of the nameless, I'll teach
you how to treat your betters and make your blank soul respect the
clergy."

As a result of the incident a number of the men quit the camp, refusing
to work for a "push who ain't got no decency."

       *       *       *       *       *

Men who serve the Master will at the same time serve men. It seems
but proper to demand of the Christian that he prove his profession
by his love of humanity. The religion that is only preached meets few
demands, the religion that is lived satisfies human wants. Jesus Christ
bore a relation of helpfulness to the burdened world; the disciples of
the Nazarene cannot do less than follow the example of the man loving
Master. At least, this is the expectancy of the men, they simply take
the Christian at his word. Mr. Higgins has instanced this many times,
for his parishioners feel that when a man is needed the Christian
should be the first to respond.

"Pilot," said a lumberjack to Mr. Higgins, "I've got a friend in the
saloon over yonder and the drunken fool is blowing his stake as fast
as he can throw it over the bar. I ain't able to get him out and the
bar tender would give me a hunch to get out myself if I tried. Will you
help me?"

"Come on," said the preacher. "We'll see what we can do together."

As they entered the barroom the woodsman pointed out his friend. Paddy
was in that hilarious state of intoxication where liberality knows no
bounds. He staggered up to the bar and in drunken happiness cried:

"Here, bung swater, set up to the house. Hades while the dough lasts.
Turn the spigot and give us a beer bath."

Paddy generously emptied his pockets on the metal counter and a roll of
bills and a handful of silver lay before the crowd.

The bar tender reached for the cash to sweep it into the till, but he
was not quick enough, for the large hand of the missionary covered the
roll of bills.

"I'll take this for my treat, Paddy," said Mr. Higgins in a quiet but
decisive tone.

"No you don't," said the saloon man and he hastened to attack the
intruder.

"Stand back," said the preacher. "You're not in my class, and I can't
reduce my heft to accommodate a middle weight at this late hour."

The bar tender was full of fight and menacingly waved a weapon at the
preacher, and several seconded him in the contest.

"Sit down, you heated fools," cried a campman; "that's the Sky Pilot,
and the man that tackles him tackles me and some others."

"Paddy has had more than enough liquor already," continued the
preacher, "the silver I left on the bar is more than sufficient to
treat the crowd at his expense, so I'll keep the rest as Paddy's banker
until he is in a condition to know the value of it." Turning to the
saloonman, he said, "You call yourself a man and yet you would take all
the winter's earnings of a poor fellow who is not in his right mind.
You are a scoundrel or you would have sent this fellow away long ago."

Mr. Higgins and his friend got Paddy on the train and carried him to
Bemidji where they put him to bed.

Next morning Paddy wandered into the lobby where the preacher was
sitting. "Some one robbed me last night," he began; "they took every
cent I had and pinched my hat and coat. What am I goin' to do?"

"Go home. That's what you're going to do," said the preacher with
decision. "Nobody robbed you Paddy, nobody needed to. When I met you
last night you were throwing your money away faster than they could
take it from you. You had already lost your coat and you threw your hat
out of the car window on the way here. But we managed to save a little
for you, enough to get you back home." The preacher handed him the roll
of bills he had saved. It contained forty dollars.

Paddy took the advice of the Sky Pilot and left at once for home, never
again to appear among his old associates in the pineries. He is the
brother of a respected Catholic priest, and comes of a prominent family.

       *       *       *       *       *

The proverb reads, "A man is known by the company he keeps." In the
main the proverb is true, but it is not always applicable. A slum
worker differs from his associates; a camp worker is with the worst
element of the camps more than with the men who walk straight; he goes
where he is needed, and, like the Master, he is a friend of publicans
and sinners. But he who lifts another does not lower himself, even if
he has to stoop in order to lift. In fact, I doubt if there be even the
suggestion of stooping. Although the physical figure implies the act--I
rather believe that the good man lifts himself when he extends his hand
down to another. Let me tell you a story, one that is well known in the
northern woods:

A---- was built for doing things, and looked the part. If you were
judging from appearances you would say that he was one of the best, and
if you asked for confirmation of your opinion the lumberjack would
answer regarding him, "None better in all the north woods,"--a high
physical certification.

For some time A---- had been a foreman. His abilities won the
admiration of the men and his habits of life made him feared,--it was
another case of what whiskey can do with a man.

Once when Mr. Higgins was preaching in A----'s camp, A---- came into
the meeting and drunkenly listened to the minister as he pleaded with
the men to forsake evil and get right with God. A tense stillness hung
over the bunkhouse and all the audience listened in sympathy.

Suddenly another voice broke into the harmony. It was A---- crying in
fervid encouragement: "Lace it to them, Higgins, give them hell, old
boy, the drunken sons of the nameless need a dose of religion to make
them log right."

"Don't notice him, boys," said Mr. Higgins; "that is whiskey that is
talking. A---- would be ashamed of that sort of thing if he were sober,
but whiskey isn't ashamed of anything."

At the end of Frank Higgins' first year in Bemidji, when the camps were
pouring their men into the towns, he happened to visit the little town
of Farley, Minnesota. The lumberjacks owned the town. The long drought
of winter was turned into a deluge and it was the evident intention of
the foresters to consume in a day enough to make up for the enforced
abstinence. A stream of coin passed over the bar and a tide of liquor
came from the other side.

Near a saloon a laughing crowd watched the antics of a powerful fellow
who drunkenly wallowed in the mud. Bewilderingly fluent and ingeniously
profane was the man in the gutter, and his drunken comrades raised
their laughter of approval at his antics and remarks. Pushing his way
through the crowd, Mr. Higgins came upon the object of their mirth--it
was A----, the foreman, too drunk to care about or to understand his
degradation.

The missionary helped the foolish fellow to his feet and, leaning him
against a building for support, scraped the filth from his garments
with a shovel.

The father and brother-in-law of A---- were in the village and to them
the missionary, took his drunken charge. A---- had been working but a
few miles from home but had not visited his people for two years. When
the relatives saw their son and brother, at the same time realizing his
helplessness in the presence of temptation, they asked the missionary
to take him to the Keeley Cure at Minneapolis, two hundred miles away.

Mr. Higgins was not anxious for the task, but he knew that there was
a chance for at least a partial reformation, and anything was an
improvement on the present way of living. The only way to accomplish
the journey with an unwilling patient was to keep the man drunk and get
him to the institute while under the influence of his enemy--this was
beating the devil with his first lieutenant. So the minister packed
his grip with unministerial baggage--whiskey--and patiently waited his
train. It took three men to get the logger into the car, and with the
beginning of the journey the real troubles of the temperance worker
began. On one side was the grip loaded with bottles, on the other a man
loaded with whiskey. The only thing that suggested the ministry was the
half fare permit, and that was out of sight.

No wonder the conductor smiled when the minister presented his
credentials. As the railroader punched the ticket, he said: "Are you
on your way to Presbytery with a lay delegate, or are you both bound
for a distillery convention?"

The smoking car was crowded with woodsmen on their way to the city.
A---- was in fighting trim and only the ever present bottle could keep
him from stirring up the crowd. Every few minutes the minister passed
him the bottle and it acted like paregoric on a colicky baby. "It was
the only time I tended bar all day, and I am not anxious to repeat the
experience," said Mr. Higgins.

At Spur 25, A---- was sufficiently sober to recognize a friend who was
waiting on the platform, and immediately he cried to the ministerial
bar tender, "Here, Sky Pilot, give Kirk a drink. Hand him the glass
works and let him sample the cold tea."

Between Farley and Walker the effluvia from bodies long immune to
water, the disregard of sanitary requirements, the expectorations and
the foul air of the crowded car became unbearable. The missionary felt
it very necessary that he should go elsewhere and breathe a cleaner
atmosphere, so he called a teamster and installed him as bartender
while he went into the day coach to breathe. A----'s father was in the
day coach but did not dare to approach his drunken son.

The missionary had not counted all the possible exigencies when he
pressed the teamster into service. The substitute bartender had solaced
himself with the liquid goods before entering the train, and was soon
in a rapturous state from the mixture brought about from imbibing
A----'s whiskey. Every time A---- demanded a drink the driver took one
himself, and being a frugal soul, drank largely because another was
paying the bill. He was a happy jack and expressed himself in song.
It was the eighteenth of March, the day after St. Patrick's Day. On
the platform at Walker a crowd of Irishmen were lounging, the green
ribbons of yesterday's celebration adorning their lapels. The maudlin
teamster was a protestant Irishman, and the green streamers aroused in
his befuddled mind visions of glorious Londonderry days where the fist
played a larger part in religion than it does in Minnesota. Leaning
far out the window, until he seemed to balance on his belt buckle,
he began the soul stirring melody "Protestant Boys." At least it
was soul stirring to the Catholic Irish. At the depot the old scenes
of Londonderry were renewed and a blow drove the teamster across the
car and jammed him between the seats on the filthy floor. The feet of
the Orangeman stuck high in the air, and though the trainmen tried to
release him, they could not.

Unaware of what was happening in the next car, the minister was talking
with A----'s father when the conductor broke into the conversation.

"Come into the smoker and take care of your parishioners, Mr. Higgins,"
he said hurriedly, "we can't handle that booze-soaked crew."

When Mr. Higgins entered the car he found that he had two patients that
needed his immediate attention.

At Brainerd they changed cars and waited two hours for the Minneapolis
train. The minister took his charge into the station. Here A---- gave
an exhibition of drunken hilarity that drove out the self-respecting
loungers and caused the station master to demand A----'s exit. The
streets received the minister and his charge, but after a few improper
acts and worse remarks an officer ordered them off the streets.

The only places open to the strollers were the saloons, and the
minister led his companion into one of them. The saloonmen, because
of the natural results of their business can stand considerable of
the unusual, but this woodsman was able to give the denizens of
Billingsgate advance instruction in the unprintable and nauseating.
Not having lost all sense of the fitness of things, the saloon keeper
escorted the woodsman to the door and Mr. Higgins again linked himself
to the staggering man.

From one side of the walk to the other the powerful logger dragged
the husky preacher, and as they continued through the streets the
blasphemy and filth flowed on. It was the expected that happened; a
representative of law and order threatened to lock up both pedestrians
in the city jail--for the logger dragged the minister in his zig-zag
course and both appeared drunken. But in spite of the rough clothes,
the policeman soon recognized the Sky Pilot and placed the city jail at
his disposal while waiting for the south bound train.

When A---- realized he was in the police station his temper suddenly
arose and he rushed with closed fist at his companion. Mr. Higgins
anticipated the attack and deftly stepped aside. The heavy blow fell on
the panel of the station door, and a split panel and bruised knuckles
were the results.

After some hours Minneapolis was reached, a cab took them to the
Institute and the worst was over.

The minister and the patient entered the big rest room of the Institute
just as the bell signaled the patients to prepare for treatment. The
inmates began to remove their coats and to roll up their shirt sleeves
so that the treatment could be injected into their arms. The removing
of coats pleased A----, for it savored of a fight and he began to
prepare for a conflict. Hastily he removed his coat and with raised
guard and closed fist staggeringly advanced towards the coatless men
who had fallen into line to march past the doctor. Instead of the
anticipated fight, A---- received his first treatment,--the course in
the Keeley Cure had begun.

Several years have passed since the above incident, but A---- is still
a sober man. Respected for his ability, honored by those who employ
him, he stands high in the confidence of one of the largest lumber
companies, and large interests are in his hands. While not a professing
Christian, yet he is a strong advocate of temperance, for, having known
the degradation of drink, he now appreciates the virtue of sobriety.

       *       *       *       *       *

Quebec, with its French population, raises many loyal Catholic
sons. The training of the province does not develop a bias towards
Protestantism. Anything savoring of it is distasteful to them, due
to centuries of training. When these sons migrate to the woods of
Minnesota the inherited and trained prejudice is likely to accompany
them. On the above paragraph a story hinges.

In the north woods of Tenstrike worked a French Canadian, whom, for
obvious reasons as well as convenience, we will call "Old Quebec." Now,
"Old Quebec" was neither a scholar nor a fool. He knew a few things,
and the many things of which he knew nothing did not disturb his mental
bias or unsettle his decision. He was a man of likes and dislikes and
he gave his whole strength to either; he never asked himself whether
his likes or dislikes were reasonable, he was simply satisfied to be
out-and-out in opposition or comradeship. What he hated he cursed;
what he respected he was always on hand to assist. Well, he cursed the
Sky Pilot whenever he saw him.

"Old Quebec" had no love for religion of any kind, but if a man wished
to profess any spiritual relationship, Quebec was so trained that only
Catholicism was acceptable to him. Therefore, when the Rev. Frank E.
Higgins came to the camp in which Old Quebec worked the Frenchman
thought him a non-entity because he was religious and a fool because
he was not a Catholic. If you had asked Old Quebec, "Aren't you
prejudiced?" he would have laughed, probably have sworn you out of
countenance, and in his blasphemous way have given you the information,
"What I know I know." His answer would have satisfied him and his
profanity have settled you.

So, at the meeting, on the missionary's first appearance, Old Quebec
did all he could to disturb and interfere. When asked to give the
others the privilege of hearing, he replied with a torrent of
invective, blasphemy and vulgarity that shocked the ears of every
decent man in the camp. Now there are some men whom one can not easily
eject. Old Quebec was probably one of these, at least, the missionary
decided that discretion was the better part of valor. For once
there were two speakers at the meeting, and Mr. Higgins, being more
accustomed to public speaking, won out.

Few men could equal Old Quebec with the peavy. When there were logs
to sack in the shallows of the river he was the man to keep the stuff
from jamming, or when they jammed, to find the key log and break the
obstruction. He was strong as hammered steel and bore himself as the
king of the crew. He satisfied himself by cursing the missionary on
all occasions, and the missionary was satisfied to talk him to a stand
still. True, the missionary had tried to win the man, but Old Quebec
was unapproachable.

One Sunday night the missionary went to a hotel in Tenstrike and after
spending some time in conversation with the loungers, he started for
the barn to see if his dog team was comfortable for the night. On the
way to the barn he passed the ice house, before which lay several cakes
of ice. As he passed between the cakes the missionary stumbled over the
body of a man. The body was motionless and cold, and although he felt
for evidence of life he could discover none. Rushing into the hotel
saloon, the preacher called for assistance. Old Quebec was at the bar
drinking.

"Come on, Quebec," cried Mr. Higgins, "get the lantern and help me with
a dead or dying man."

Procuring a lantern, the missionary and the Frenchman hurried into the
yard.

"Take hold of his feet, Quebec," said the preacher as he put his arms
around the cold body, but Old Quebec, true to his superstition, refused
to touch what was apparently a dead body.

The missionary got the body on his back, Quebec held the lantern, and
the body was carried into the saloon. Fortunately the man was not dead,
but was drunk and frozen, and, had it not been for the timely aid would
soon have succumbed. In the saloon the missionary worked over the
helpless man until consciousness returned.

"Take care of him," said the minister to the hotel man, "for I must
leave early. Charge the expense to me."

Old Quebec heard the remark.

In the course of a few days the Sky Pilot visited the camp in which
Old Quebec worked. The service began, but no word from the old man,
although he sat in a prominent place.

"I suppose Quebec's waiting till the preaching commences," whispered
one of the boys to a neighbor.

The preaching began. Through it all Quebec listened with attention, no
sign of interruption came from him.

"What's the matter with Old Quebec?" the minister asked himself, "is
the fellow sick, there's so little action in him?"

After the meeting was over the Frenchman beckoned to the preacher.
Wonderingly, Mr. Higgins approached him.

"There it is, Pilot," said the Frenchman, extending his hand, "that's
yours now. Will you shake it? I've been pretty rough on you. I ain't
got much time for religion, but after what I saw that Sunday night in
Tenstrike, I'm settled. You're willing to do for us poor fools what we
ain't got sense enough to do for ourselves. Anything I can do for you,
Pilot, I do. What I know I know. I'm with you."

As strong in his friendship as he was in his hatred is Old Quebec, ever
ready to give a helping hand to the missionary, and as a contrast to
the past he now feels that he is responsible for the decorum of the
camp. Woe be it to the jack who dares to interfere with one of Mr.
Higgins' meetings if Old Quebec is present. Once in Bemidji a crowd of
lumberjacks was standing on the sidewalk when Old Quebec, who was in
the group, saw Mr. Higgins approaching.

"Open up the road for the Pilot," cried Old Quebec, "he's made the
sledding easy for many a one of us, so I'll road monkey for him."

(The road monkey is the man who keeps the ice roads clean.)

The old fellow listens now, and others listen at his bidding,--Faith
cometh by hearing, so Old Quebec's chances are bettered, for the word
is like leaven.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is not preaching alone that is needed in the solitudes of the
forest; even here pastoral work has its place, often a large place. Had
the apostle Paul been visiting the lumber camps of Asia Minor when he
wished to be all things to all men, or had he just beheld the ancient
lumberjacks as they poured into the Athenian bowery after a winter's
chopping on the slopes of God forsaken Olympia? Whatever the cause of
the thought, it expresses the need of the missionary who would work in
the camps. But Paul was himself a missionary, and that explains why he
knew the qualities of heart and hand essential to successful work.

Frank Higgins is a pastor, preacher, friend and brother to his
heterogeneous flock. Their concerns are his interests and they know
that if they need assistance this minister will extend it gladly. The
following incident will illustrate this point:

A. M. was a man who had followed the camps for years. In his years of
logging he had acquired a little property, was happily married, and
several children came to lighten his home. His wages were above his
expenditures and he was making financial progress. But if you wish to
introduce a change in the even march of progress, introduce drink. This
is what A. did.

[Illustration: A HOMESTEADER'S SHACK]

It was then the old, old story of retrogression through alcohol. The
property he prized as the fruit of industry gradually passed into other
hands and a darker side of life was seen, in which the woodsman, his
wife and children were all involved. The saloons handled his wages
and a respected man sank into the maw of appetite.

In one of the saloons the Rev. F. E. Higgins found the rum-soaked
Scotchman on the verge of delirium tremens. The missionary took the
helpless man to his home in the forest and began to nurse him back to
health and sobriety. Two days and nights he sat beside the bed until
the drunken visions passed and reason began to return.

While the missionary was attending his self-assumed patient he gathered
every piece of the man's clothing into a bundle and sent them over to
the home of a neighbor. Not a single garment belonging to the man was
left in the house. It was a course of heroic treatment that was in
store for the patient.

When M. began to regain his reason he was besides himself for liquor,
but there was none to be had. Leaping from the bed he sought in all
parts of the house for his clothing so he could return to the saloons
and quench the consuming thirst, but no successful find rewarded his
diligence. He begged for his clothing, but the man who sat beside
his bed was deaf to entreaty. It was a seige in which the besieged
could not even claim the primitive fig leaf. If the watcher had not
restrained him he would have rushed out of the house, but the man who
had sent his clothes away never relaxed his vigilance The house was a
prison.

The hours passed and the man became milder. The Sky Pilot drew out
memories of better days; the long-closed chambers of memory slowly
opened, and with the return came the recollections of the days when
freedom crowned the life and evil habits were as yet unborn. Such
remembrances create the desire to reproduce again the life of freedom.
While M. was sighing for the past joys, Mr. Higgins was pointing him
to the One who said, "I came that ye might have life, and have it
more abundantly." At last in the shadow of the sin absorbing Cross
the brawny preacher and weakened slave knelt side by side. To him who
proclaimed liberty to the captive and to them that are bound they
prayed, and when they arose two freemen clasped hands in friendship and
Christian fellowship.

M. realized that while he was free, yet sin had weakened him, so he
gathered his belongings together and with his family left the place of
his temptation and fall and emigrated to Manitoba. While I write, a
letter is on my desk. It is from M.'s wife telling of his later life.
She who wrote the letter was a Catholic, but she tells of the God-given
strength that came to M., how during the years since his conversion he
had lived under the sustaining grace of Christ. "Both my husband and
son united with the Presbyterian Church here, and when at last they
brought the father from a northern camp, bruised and dying, his faith
held fast to the Savior who took him from the pit."



CHAPTER IX.

THE FIELD AND ITS POSSIBILITIES.


The Evangelistic Committee of the Presbyterian Church has been active
in the logging camp work since 1902, when it first sent missionaries to
preach in the camps of Minnesota and Wisconsin.

The first missionaries it appointed to this work were Rev. Jos. Oliver
Buswell and Rev. F. E. Higgins, the former taking the work in Wisconsin
and the latter in Minnesota. Both these men had been carrying on
private work in the camps near their pastorates. Prior to 1907 the work
was largely experimental and on a small scale, but in the summer of the
above-named year a strong sub-committee of the Evangelistic committee
took charge of the logging camp mission work and an aggressive campaign
was inaugurated.

In the foregoing pages of this little volume we have considered the
work in Minnesota exclusively and presented only the part which came
directly under the hand of Mr. Higgins: now we desire to give a brief
view of a more extended field.

The sub-committee known as the Lumberman's Evangelistic Council is
composed of men who are individually interested in this work. They are
prominent lumbermen or well-known ministers, as the personnel of the
committee shows:

    Mr. W. A. Holt, Oconto, Wis.
    Mr. Arthur D. Wheeler, Chicago, Ill.
    Mr. C. A. Barton, Minneapolis, Minn.
    Mr. E. T. Buxton, Duluth, Minn.
    Dr. J. M. Gray, Chicago, Ill.
    Dr. W. O. Carrier, Waukesha, Wis.
    Mr. Dewitt Van Ostrand, Philips, Wis.
    Dr. J. Beveridge Lee, Chicago, Ill.
    Dr. W. J. Darby, Evansville, Ind.

The officers of the council are:

    Hon. Hugh H. Hanna, Chairman, Indianapolis, Ind.
    Mr. J. E. Defebaugh, Vice Chairman, Chicago, Ill.
    Dr. P. E. Zartman, Secretary and Treasurer, Winona Lake, Ind.
    Rev. F. E. Higgins, Superintendent of Camp Work, Rockford, Minn.
    Rev. J. O. Buswell, General Superintendent, Lumber Exchange,
          Minneapolis, Minn.

The desire of the Lumberman's Evangelistic Council is to place the
services of the missionaries at the disposal of all the lumber camps in
the west, so that the general morals of the workers may be raised and a
corresponding plain of righteousness and ability be reached.

[Illustration: THE STEAM HAULER]

The superintendents of this work are well equipped for the task before
them. Mr. Buswell has been an interested worker in the camps for some
years. He felt that God called him to this particular work, and has
been instrumental in leading many of the foresters to Christ.

The reader of these pages knows that Mr. Higgins brings to the work the
practical experience of twelve years, and a devotion to God and man
that brings results.

Through Mr. Buswell and Mr. Higgins the claims of the lumberjacks
have been presented to the churches and by their efforts almost all
the money used to carry on the work in the past, except their own
salaries, has been raised. Under their direction a number of helpers
have been at work in the field, the superintendents being individually
responsible for their salaries and expenses.

Beyond the States of Minnesota and Wisconsin, a little work was also
done in Michigan and Washington. In the State of Washington Mr. Higgins
spent the last two summers, taking with him, in 1907, two of his best
camp chaplains.

The future is ruddy with promise. With the more extensive organization
come hopes of greater efficiency and broader possibilities. The
desires of a few men have become the wishes and prayers of a greater
number. The sub-committee's intention is to reach all the western and
southwestern States in which the men of ax and peavey are at work.

As yet only the edges of the field have been approached; even in
Minnesota where the work is more extended, only one hundred camps
are touched, while four hundred other camps are left entirely to
themselves. Many of the States are without any organized work in the
lumber regions.

A view of the States west and south will reveal larger timber districts
where this mission work will find a welcome and where aggressive
extension is immediately imperative.

Western Montana has its camps on the tree-covered mountain slopes.
Idaho computes its timbered acres at ten millions. Timber is one of the
principal resources of the State of Washington. The western slopes of
the Cascades are heavily wooded with fir and on the eastern side blue
and yellow pine predominate. Oregon is proud of its pine forests, the
density of the woods is inviting to industry and solitude. The Douglas
spruce has made this State a world-famous mart for masts and spars.
California is the home of the redwood, and all the world reads of its
mammoths of the forest; but in the northern part of the State pine,
oak and fir lure the lumber companies, and there the lumberjacks are
calling for services.

Southwest of Minnesota the numerous camps of the timbered Black Hills
catch the eye, then come the sixteen million mountain acres of forest
land in the neighboring State of Wyoming, and an almost equal stretch
in Colorado. Missouri is also well wooded, in all except the northern
and western parts, and the State of Arkansas has twenty-five million
acres of timber wealth. Louisiana has more than half of the timber
acreage of Arkansas. The State of Texas does not count its wooded lands
by acres; it presents the figures of sixty-four thousand square miles.

The possibilities of this evangelistic work are noticeable in the
above sketch of the western and southern forests. Where the lumber is
to be obtained, there are the lumber camps and the lumberjacks. The
surroundings of the men are much the same as in Minnesota, with the
restraints of civilization removed and the agents of viciousness always
at hand. The foresters present a picture at which the angels weep and
the devils are joyful.

Lumbering has been a prominent industry for many years in Michigan,
Wisconsin and Minnesota, and it will continue to play a large part in
the industry of these States for twenty years to come. In such States
the camps are large, grouped and accessible therefore the mission work
can be done with greater ease and economy than in the older States of
the east where the lumbercamps are far apart and small. In the west a
camp chaplain can serve as high as fifteen camps, giving them each a
service at least twice a month.

Seventy-five dollars a month will support a chaplain. Since the logging
season is short, in Minnesota about five and a half months, it will
be seen that a large amount of good can be accomplished at a small
expenditure. A chaplain will preach to from sixty to one hundred and
sixty men every night in the week and on Sunday perhaps preach in three
different camps. He is the representative of spiritual truths to from
six hundred to one thousand men. Where, at so little cost, are the
possibilities of good so great? Where are these camp preachers to be
obtained? "I believe that God will call to this work the men of the
pineries rather than the men of the seminaries," said the Rev. F. E.
Higgins. This has been so in the past. The men who are converted in the
camps are equipped with a knowledge of conditions through experience,
and where mental and spiritual ability are present they can do
excellent work.

Several of the successful workers in the camp mission were once
lumberjacks. Mr. Fred Davis, who, since the promotion of Mr. Higgins,
is superintendent of the Minnesota work, was at one time a lumberjack.
Mr. Davis refused an excellent business position in order to spend his
life reaching the foresters.

Another worker is Mr. L. C. Michells, a former cruiser and estimator.
Mr. Michells is not only a strong preacher, but is physically able to
care for himself when opposition is presented,--to this the ex-mayor
of a lumber town can testify to his sorrow, as can others who saw the
fallen political boss hauled home on a dray after the encounter with
right and might. At the time of writing, Mr. Michells is preaching in
the camps of Washington.

God is raising up men. Will the Christian church raise the means?

Through the work done in Minnesota and Wisconsin an introduction has
been secured to all the Western States; the timber lands of the west
are owned largely by the firms who have exploited the woods adjacent to
the Great Lakes, and these companies know the good accomplished here,
hence a ready welcome is given to the missionary going to more western
fields. The lumberjacks are naturally wanderers and in the camps of the
Pacific slopes the Minnesota and Wisconsin woodsmen are already there
to give the chaplains welcome. Mr. Higgins tells of preaching in a town
on the Tacoma Eastern Railway in Washington:

"In one town where no religious organization was at work, I held
services in a dance hall, and seventy-five persons were present, sixty
of whom were loggers. After the service two lumberjacks came up to me
and said: 'Hello, Pilot, don't you know us? We're a couple of your
Minnesota boys. Don't you remember preaching in the Clearwater Camps on
'The Chances a Fellow Has if He'll Take Them?' Well, we broke away from
the gang, came out here, have saved our money, and are the ones who
rustled the crowd for you tonight.'

"On another occasion I was to speak in the open air, when an old
Minnesota campman brought a pitcher of lemonade and placed it by my
side. After the meeting he invited me to his home and wanted me to make
it mine while I labored in that place. Such kindness from the men who
had been my boys in the North Star pineries did much to make my work in
Washington a pleasure."

By the past work the doors of the present have been forced open. The
waiting men are inviting the bearers of good tidings to enter--shall we
refuse? Where there is a need shall not the Christian Church supply it?

Douglas Malloch, the lumbermen's poet, presents us a picture of the
field in the following poem:

THE PARISH OF THE PINES

        "Where the winter's chill is deep and still,
          Where summer days are long,
        Where sighing breeze and branches fill
          The air with sob and song,
        There lies a parish of the Lord
          No wall or street confines:
        There 'waits the coming of the Lord
          The Parish of the Pines.

        "No tower uplifts its gilded spire
          Above a house of prayer,
        No organ tower or swaying choir
          Makes sweetest music there,
        For 'tis a vineyard choked with weeds
          And lush with tangled vines;
        Yea, much it lacks and much it needs--
          The Parish of the Pines.

        "Yet word of God is word of God
          In camp or pulpit told,
        And men of forest and of sod
          Await the story old.
        'Tis time to hew away the sin
          That now the soul confines,
        And let a little sunshine in
          The Parish of the Pines."



Transcriber's Notes:


Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected.





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