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The opening · free to read
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.
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.
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.
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