------------------------------------------------------------------------
“_I never put off until tomorrow what
I find hard to-day, for tomorrow rarely
brings the needed skill._”
“_What little success I have achieved
has been pounded out with naked fists
through many years of hard work._”
_James Oliver Curwood_
_THE WORKS OF
JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD_
THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM 1908
THE WOLF HUNTERS 1908
THE GOLD HUNTERS 1909
THE GREAT LAKES (_Non-Fiction_) 1909
THE DANGER TRAIL 1910
GOD’S COUNTRY—TRAIL TO HAPPINESS (_Non-Fiction_) 1911
STEELE OF THE ROYAL MOUNTED 1911
THE HONOR OF THE BIG SNOWS 1911
FLOWER OF THE NORTH 1912
ISOBEL 1913
KAZAN 1914
GOD’S COUNTRY AND THE WOMAN 1915
THE HUNTED WOMAN 1916
BAREE, SON OF KAZAN 1917
FAULKNER OF THE INLAND SEAS (_Short Stories_) 1917
THE GRIZZLY KING 1917
THE COURAGE OF MARGE O’DOONE 1918
NOMADS OF THE NORTH 1919
THE RIVER’S END 1919
THE VALLEY OF SILENT MEN 1920
BACK TO GOD’S COUNTRY (_Short Stories_) 1920
THE FLAMING FOREST 1921
THE GOLDEN SNARE 1921
THE ALASKAN 1923
THE COUNTRY BEYOND 1923
A GENTLEMAN OF COURAGE 1924
THE ANCIENT HIGHWAY 1925
SWIFT LIGHTNING 1925
THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM 1926
THE BLACK HUNTER 1926
GREEN TIMBER _Completed by Dorthea A. Bryant_ 1930
SON OF THE FORESTS (_Autobiography_) 1930
THE CRIPPLED LADY OF PERIBONKA _Completed by Dorthea A.
Bryant_ 1930
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: _James Oliver Curwood_]
JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD
DISCIPLE OF THE WILDS
_A Biography by_
H. D. SWIGGETT
_Illustrations by_
J. C. WEBER
THE PAEBAR COMPANY
_Publishers_ _New York_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FIRST EDITION
COPYRIGHT, 1943
by
THE PAEBAR COMPANY
_No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without
permission in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer who
may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine
or newspaper. Manufactured in the United States of America._
Dedication
* * * * *
TO MY PARENTS
_Mr. & Mrs. William Hobart Swiggett_
It is to these two grand people that their son
graciously dedicates this volume.
Had it not been for their understanding and
guiding ways, I could never have attained and
aspired to my goal in this life.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FOREWORD
This is the first biography written on the life of
the famous novelist, adventurer and conservationist,
James Oliver Curwood.
Although Mr. Curwood’s books are still widely read, the
younger generation knows comparatively little about the
life of one of the greatest conservationists of all time
and the man who knew the beautiful Canadian Northwest
better than any other.
It is hoped, therefore, that this volume will refresh the
memory of the past generation and at the same time bring
something new to the minds of our present young people.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
_The Child Prodigy_ _Page_ 15
CHAPTER TWO
_A Change Comes About_ _Page_ 29
CHAPTER THREE
_The Discoverer_ _Page_ 44
CHAPTER FOUR
_Owosso Schooldays_ _Page_ 65
CHAPTER FIVE
_College Days_ _Page_ 105
CHAPTER SIX
_Newspaper Work and Early Writings_ _Page_ 114
CHAPTER SEVEN
_With the Detroit News-Tribune_ _Page_ 122
CHAPTER EIGHT
_God’s Country_ _Page_ 132
CHAPTER NINE
_His Brotherhood_ _Page_ 165
CHAPTER TEN
_Trail’s End_ _Page_ 172
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD Frontispiece
_The following illustrations are contained in
a special section facing page_ 110
JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD AT THE AGE OF SEVEN Page I
STREET SCENE Page II
THE SHIAWASSEE RIVER Page III
THE JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD CASTLE Page IV
THE BOAT LANDING, CURWOOD CASTLE Page V
JUST JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD Page VI
MR. AND MRS. JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD Page VII
CURWOOD, CAMPING IN THE YUKON Page VIII
CURWOOD, THE WRITER, IN A CORNER OF HIS GUN
ROOM Page IX
CURWOOD BEFORE THE CABIN WHICH HE BUILT IN THE
BRITISH COLUMBIA MOUNTAINS Page X
CURWOOD, THE WOODSMAN Page XI
AN UNUSUAL, STRIKING PICTURE OF CURWOOD Page XII
THE CURWOOD OUTFIT GOING DOWN THE FRASER RIVER Page XIII
THE CABIN ON THE AU SABLE Page XIV
THE CONSERVATION CLUBHOUSE Page XIV
THE HOME OF JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD Page XV
CURWOOD GRAVE IN OAKHILL CEMETERY Page XVI
_Pen and Ink Sketches by_ J. C. WEBER
_Pages_ 71, 99, 135, 139, 145
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My greatest obligation in the preparation of _JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD:
DISCIPLE OF THE WILDS_ is to Mrs. Ethel Greenwood Curwood, Mr. A. J.
Donovan and Mrs. Fred B. Woodard, of Owosso, Mich., who aided me
immensely in gathering Mr. Curwood’s volumes, documents, correspondence,
photographs, manuscripts and other material without which it would have
been impossible to produce this biography.
Thanks and appreciation go out also to the following for help and
encouragement:
J. E. Campbell, editor of the _Argus-Press_, Owosso, Mich.; John S.
Deere; Miss Anne Crum; Dr. Harold D. Webb; The Conservation Department
of the State of Michigan; the Alumni Catalog Office of the University of
Michigan; Doubleday, Doran and Company, of New York City (through whose
courtesy many quotations have been made available for publication in
this book[1]); C. A. Paquin; Harold Titus; Miss Olive Hormel, of Owosso;
R. K. Bresnahan, Postmaster and close friend of Curwood’s, at Roscommon,
Mich.; Private George Terashita, Camp Atterbury, Ind.; James B. Hendry,
of Sutton’s Bay, Mich.; James Hilton, of Hollywood, Calif.; John Bowen,
Staff Writer, _Indianapolis Times_; Roscommon Civic Club; John Sellers,
of Franklin, Ind.; _The Franklin Evening Star_; Robert Todd; James B.
Young, Miss Barbara Swiggett, and to countless others.
Footnote 1:
From “Son of the Forest,” by James Oliver Curwood, copyright, 1930, by
Doubleday, Doran and Company, Inc.
I also wish to thank the public and state libraries of Indiana for
allowing me the use of material. And it is a pleasure to express
appreciation to the kind people of Owosso, Mich., to the students of
yesteryear at the University of Michigan, and to the Cree and
Chippawayan Indian tribes in Canada, all of whom knew Mr. Curwood
intimately.
Harvey Jacobs, a newspaperman, is also remembered for his encouragement
and good wishes, and last, but far from least, Walter Winchell, whose
seemingly endless supply of energy and driving force helped to push me
onward in the task of completing this book.
H. D. SWIGGETT
_Au Sable Study_
_Franklin, Ind._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JAMES OLIVER
CURWOOD
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER ONE
THE CHILD PRODIGY
Little did the stern though kind-hearted citizens of Owosso, Michigan
realize that on the eventful morning of June 12, 1878, the newly-born
second son of James Moran and Abigail Griffen Curwood would in time
plummet across the literary horizon as the brightest star to have
appeared in years. His name was James Oliver Curwood.
From the outset the parents had trouble with their new son, finding it
very difficult to please his childish desires. Perhaps ancestry had a
bearing here, and if it did, it may all be traced back to the thrilling
career of the famous Captain Frederick A. Marrayat, great seaman and
popular novelist of yesteryear. He was the lad’s great-uncle.
Jimmie Curwood’s birth took place in the days when Owosso was a small
town of some eight thousand population, and trees grew in the center of
the streets. It was that era of the nineteenth century when livestock
and fowl were free to roam about the city at will, and the horse and
buggy played an important part in the development of transportation.
Likewise so it was in that district of Owosso known as West Town. It was
in this particular part of town that Jimmie Curwood played so much with
his friends (bad though they were), and came forth from bitter schoolboy
battles unscathed. Later in life he remarked about West Town in the
following manner:
“Had I continued to live in West Town at Owosso, I might have become a
genius, but Fate determined a change was advisable when I was six years
old.”
The city of Owosso today is far removed from what it was in the
childhood days of James Oliver Curwood. Today luxurious homes line the
paved streets and tall buildings dot the skyline where once stood low
flat ones. Beautiful homes have filled up the empty spaces that were
once wide within the city limits, but that same feeling and general
atmosphere of drowsiness persists just as it did fifty years ago.
Tall, stately trees line the smooth streets and many automobiles
traverse these thoroughfares where once the old horse and buggy moved
slowly along.
Today Owosso is in the very heart of the Michigan vacationland. Running
practically through the very center of the city is the smooth flowing
Shiawassee river, better known as “Sparkling Waters.”
Although Owosso has grown in population from eight to fifteen thousand
since Jim Curwood’s birth and boyhood days, her people remain very much
the same as they were then.
West Town! A haven for growing children and a headache for grownups. It
was here in West Town that Jimmie Curwood grew up and also where he all
but drove his very patient parents insane with his juvenile rascality.
With his chum, Charlie Miller, it seems that there was hardly anything
the pair of them would not attempt to do. Stealing fruit and playing
“hookey” from school were just a few among the many items that always
kept the good citizens of Owosso on the constant alert.
They fished, hunted and trapped all along the banks of the Shiawassee,
which flows through the city in a great sweeping bend (when they really
should have been in school). The river is flanked on either side by some
of the most perfectly shaped trees that man has ever looked upon.
Jimmie and Charlie often staged and executed raids upon the fruit stands
of old Mike Gazzera. Then as they would run away with their plunder
tucked safely beneath their dirty blouses they would glance back and see
the grey-headed old Italian shaking his fist at them and threatening
them with all types of punishment. Fortunately enough for both, old Mike
thought far too much of them and never actually carried out his plans of
chastisement.
Probably the one outstanding characteristic of Jim Curwood as a young
boy was the fact that he was seldom if ever clean of face or clothing.
Try as she might to keep her bewildering offspring clean, his dear old
mother seldom succeeded for much more than an hour or two at a time. For
immediately after having been thoroughly cleaned up young Jimmie would
head for the nearest schoolboy fight or the dirtiest part of West Town
and proceed to get himself dirty again. Indeed he was a child prodigy
and therein lies the reason for the old saying, which is sad but true:
“why mothers get gray.” It is indeed no wonder that the townspeople
would oft-times shake their heads and sigh:
“Them two’ll never amount to a hill of beans.” But Jimmie and Charlie
amazed and fooled them all.
At the rather seedy, uneventful and undecided age of five years, when a
youngster wants to be everything from a minister of the gospel to
heavyweight boxing champion of the world, both Jimmie’s and Charlie’s
parents decided that their sons should embark upon some sort of careers.
Before Jimmie was born, his parents had decided what their second son
would do for his life’s work. They had chosen music and the classics for
him; Charlie’s parents had chosen literature and the arts for him.
So for a short while Jimmie practiced his music lessons but soon gave
them up as hopeless, as did his parents, for the lad hated music lessons
at that age with an undying hatred. As far as Charlie’s future in the
field of literature was concerned, he too abandoned his parents’ choice.
Many things enter into the course of a child’s life even as they do with
a grown-up, and consequently the career of a musician for Jimmie did not
materialize. Instead the lad developed into one of the world’s foremost
authors and conservationists of his time. It was Charlie Miller who
became quite adept as an accomplished musician.
* * * * *
With the surrender of Lord Cornwallis came a man of adventurous spirit
and Dutch descent into the land of the Mohawks and the Oneidas. As he
journeyed through this country making friends with the Indian tribes, he
chanced upon and fell madly in love with a beautiful Mohawk princess
from a little village near the head waters of the Canada river. As to
her name, it has not been learned, but as to her beauty, all the men and
women of those days readily vouched. For she was as tall and as slender
as the most delicate reed. The tiny moccasins which covered her feet
were the smallest ever seen by her tribe. Indeed, she was the pride and
joy of that village of Mohawks and of all tribes who had seen her as she
roamed the forests.
Jim Curwood’s mother very distinctly remembers seeing this wilderness
beauty. At that time Mrs. Curwood was but a child of ten and the lovely
Indian princess was well past her eightieth birthday.
Her beauty was indeed bewitching and all white men, as well as the
redman who had set eyes upon her loveliness, fell in love with her. Her
hair was long, black and radiantly glossy. The shoes she wore upon her
feet were so small that Jim’s mother, then but ten years of age, could
not have put her feet into them.
It was the adventurous Dutchman wandering through the Mohawk region
shortly after the Cornwallis surrender who married the Indian princess.
This man was Jim Curwood’s phlegmatic great grandfather, an adventurer
of the old school who ended up by marrying an Indian chief’s daughter.
It is little wonder that young Jimmie became such a carefree, vagabond
lover of the deep forests. Indian blood flowed deep within his veins and
throughout his entire life the forests, the streams and the lakes were
his home despite the fact that he owned a mansion in the very heart of
civilization.
Shortly after the blond Dutchman had wooed and won his princess, there
was born in England a man who later became a great naval officer in the
Queen’s navy and a world famous writer of sea tales. A man who delved
deeply into his memories and imagination to spin yarns of thrilling
adventure on the land as well as on the swelling sea. His name was
Captain Frederick Marrayat. That famous personage turned out to be a
great-uncle of Jim Curwood’s.
Several years later it was these same stories of adventure, gallant
battles and of brave men, which caused a lad named James to run away to
sea and come to America in search of adventure and thrills. When he left
England, he never returned.
Upon landing in America young James fought in the Civil War, where
fighting blood ran fast and free. Here was what he had been searching
for and at last he had found it. Years later that man became the father
of Jim Curwood.
The little house in which Jimmie Curwood first saw the light of day no
longer stands. Some time ago the two-story frame building was razed and
so far no other construction has been erected in its place. However, a
marker has been placed there, showing that it was on this particular lot
that James Oliver Curwood had been born many years ago.
As time went on the two youngsters, Jimmie and Charlie, still persisted
in getting into more and more mischief. People were beginning to shake
their heads in disapproval and consequently Mr. and Mrs. Curwood began
wondering what they should do to curb their son’s mischievous habits.
For hardly without fail when anyone saw Jimmie, son of a shoe repair
man, and Charlie, son of a saloon keeper, he was almost always sure to
see something happen.
Both boys always ran about barefooted (something which you seldom see
today), with dirty faces, hands and clothing, with no crowns in their
hats whatsoever. It is little wonder that Jimmie’s hair became bleached
by the sun and his face gathered a harvest of freckles.
As youngsters most children have peculiar ambitions, but those of Jimmie
Curwood’s as a lad of seven were outstanding among childhood desires. It
seems that his ambitions were just one or two paces behind his vivid
imagination. For some day he hoped that he might be wealthy enough to
buy an entire stock of bananas at one time. Then and only then would he
be fully able to get his complete fill of the fruit he loved so well.
His second ambition was to ride astride the large bustle worn by Kate
Russell to Sunday church. Miss Russell was a cook at the combination
saloon-hotel which was operated and owned by Charlie Miller’s father.
Despite all the obstacles that confronted them, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood
were perhaps two of the happiest people in all of Owosso. They had a
fine family and Mr. Curwood was making a fairly comfortable living with
his shoe-cobbling shop. They had no luxuries, for they could not afford
them, but they did have all the necessities that made for a comfortable
happy life.
Regardless of how honored and respected Mr. and Mrs. Curwood were in
their home town, the townspeople still continued to frown upon the
antics of the Curwood and Miller children. Was there ever to be an end
to all of this childhood devilment? This was the thought that plagued
the minds of the citizens of Owosso when the great change came about.
Business began to grow bad for Mr. Curwood at his cobbling shop and
after long deliberation he decided to sell out and purchase a farm
somewhere. He received many offers for his shop “as it stood,” and so
after a great deal of bickering he at last managed to get a fairly
decent price and it was announced to Owosso that it would soon be rid of
one of her two “Tom Sawyers.”
Although he had kept it from his family all along, Mr. Curwood at last
told them one night in the dead of winter. He had made the down payment
on a farm down in Ohio, located near the villages of Vermillion, Joppa
and Florence in Erie County.
It was to be a new life for them and since business had slacked off to
such a point that he could barely make a decent living, both Mr. and
Mrs. Curwood felt that he had made a good investment.
The next day Mrs. Curwood, Jimmie, his sister Cora and brother Edward
began preparing to leave their old home. With what money he had received
from the sale of his shop, Mr. Curwood paid all of his debts and at last
had all of his business interests straightened out. Even though he was
left with very little to begin his new life, he paid every bill which
the family owed in Owosso.
A few days later the family began its pilgrimage to the new land of
Ohio.
The little backwood’s town of Owosso thought a great deal of James Moran
and Abigail Griffen Curwood and sorely hated to see them depart, despite
the fact that they were taking with them one of the town’s biggest
trouble makers. Still, regardless of what their outward appearances were
toward Jimmie, deep within their hearts the neighbors and all who knew
him, loved him.
The move from Michigan into Ohio was later to prove the most important
change in all of young Jim Curwood’s life. Many things were to happen,
many events to take place within the next five years that none of the
Curwood family ever dreamed would happen.
When the family of five arrived at their little farm located not far
from the cross-roads village of Joppa, it was in deep winter and their
forty acres were covered with snow. The head of the family was highly
elated over the prospects of his “sight-unseen” purchase and at once
began making plans for it.
It was not until the arrival of spring, when the snows had cleared away,
that Jimmie’s father found that he had purchased something which more
closely resembled a stone quarry than a farm. As far as one could see
there were nothing but stones and boulders all over the forty acres of
his land.
One can easily imagine the thoughts that came into the elderly Mr.
Curwood’s mind as he gazed out upon what he thought was to be his
salvation. Instead of rich, fertile farmland, he had purchased a
practically worthless land of stones.
One night at the supper table Mr. Curwood called upon his children to
help him more than he had expected them to. The stones must be picked up
and stacked in piles and the work of doing so must be left to the two
young sons, monotonous, laborious and endless as it must have seemed to
them.
Jimmie hated his daily task of picking up rocks from sunup to sundown,
but he had enough foresight to realize that he had a job to do that must
be done. So together, day in and day out, Jimmie and Ed picked up
stones. Picked them up so their father could plough the fields and till
the soil.
Life now was drab for Jimmie. Gone were the glorious, carefree days
along the banks of the Shiawassee. In their place had come the ceaseless
task of picking up stones and rolling huge boulders out of the way. No
longer had he the ambition to ride astride Kate Russell’s huge bustle,
nor to own a whole stock of bananas. Just as any young boy of seven
years would feel, Jimmie hated and dreaded work, and especially this
type. It seemed that the more stones he and his brother Ed would pick
up, the more there were. For with every furrow that their father’s
plough would turn over, there would always appear a fresh supply of
rocks, both large and small.
The two boys piled stones into great stacks higher than their heads;
they constructed stone fences and they piled rocks until there were
stacks actually higher than the farmhouse itself. There were great heaps
of stones all over the forty acres of land. As a matter of fact there
was hardly enough room left to break up the ground anew and plant crops.
It was rapidly and most assuredly developing into a serious situation.
Then, suddenly, relief came from an unexpected source.
The highway department of Erie county came to their rescue and took
3,000 loads of the stones at ten cents a load. For at that time the
county needed stones for road repair and for numerous other repair jobs.
With the arrival of summer came long hard months of hot, back-breaking
toil. Jimmie and Ed wore thick, hard callouses upon their hands, their
backs seemed as if they were about to break, and the sun bronzed them
until they began to look like Indians. Many times during the long three
summer months Jimmie became overheated by the sun and fell in his tracks
in that summer of ’85. But work had to be done if success in their new
venture of farming was to be accomplished. There was little grumbling
from anyone now with the realization that they must work and save if
they were to live during the coming winter.
Directly across the road from the Curwood farm stood the home of Hiram
Fisher, a kindly old farmer, who had developed a beautiful homesite and
whose yard was filled with maple and pine trees.
The Fisher family was not as large as the Curwood’s, for there was but
one child, a very lovely daughter named Jeanne who was young Jimmie’s
superior by five years. Perhaps her outstanding characteristic was the
beautiful brown hair which fell in glossy waves down to her trim and
fragile shoulders. It was the most lovely head of hair that Jimmie or
his family had ever set eyes upon. It is indeed odd that a boy as young
as he was should take much notice of a girl’s hair, but its bewitching
beauty made him secretly admire it.
She would always part it in the middle and let it flow down to her
shoulders in long flowing tresses. She was gloriously beautiful for her
age.
As time went on and Jeanne and Jimmie became better acquainted, he
adopted a nickname for her that was to remain with her all the days of
her life. He affectionately called her “Whistling Jeanne,” because of
the beautiful tunes she whistled almost constantly.
She alone was the inspiration which helped Jimmie to hold his head high
when he felt blue or useless. For Jeanne offered him companionship,
untiring encouragement and wonderful guidance. She inspired him to
greater things in life. Jimmie often was heard to make that remark both
as a child and later as a grown man.
It was about the time that Jeanne was nearing her twelfth birthday and
Jimmie his seventh, that this thought came to him:
“No matter how hard the work is, and no matter what it might be, I shall
always do my task thoroughly.”
The stones that he had picked up all spring and summer finally set
Jimmie to serious thinking. Every now and then after he had worked an
hour or two, he would walk over to a shade tree nearby and sit down to
mop the grime and perspiration from his brow. Then he would look out
over the long, fertile fields that were once not so fertile and resolve
that he could do anything that he should set out to do, if only he would
adjust and drive himself toward it. The look in his young eyes denoted
that of an adventurer. The eyes for thrills and dangers of the unknown.
Even at the age of seven years, young James Oliver Curwood had begun to
wonder what lay just over the brink of the next ridge.
Then, as if no such thoughts had even come to him, he would return to
his task of piling stones; but as he worked he would experience a
thrill, a feeling such as he had never known before as he stooped down
to pick up the fragments of boulders. True, it was monotonous there in
the hot broiling sun, but to Jimmie, there now was something creative in
that piling up of rocks—something of which he was justly proud.
“I experienced a greater thrill when I had done three piles than I did
when I had but accomplished two.”
With the arrival of fall and early winter, James Curwood saw that the
work his sons and he had done had been a success. His crops had all
turned out good and his farm was now a thing of beauty instead of a
stone quarry. It was quite obvious that the hard labor and toil his sons
and he had administered had not been in vain. Mr. Curwood being an
honest and God-fearing man, thanked his Maker for his family’s
salvation.
Each afternoon that winter after a hard day’s work, “the three men of
the family” would trudge up to the small, white house to be greeted by
the good mother and a meal of wholesome, plain, but substantial food.
The Curwood home was small, warm and comfortable, even though humble.
The important item was that the little family was happy in its new home.
In those days there were no electric lights, telephones, radios or
motion pictures or even automobiles. So it was only natural that the
fine Curwoods always were close to the “home fires.” Though meager and
humble their home, no other family could have been happier.
They used the old type of Lion Brand coffee at two pounds for a quarter,
and the usual stick of candy once a month or so. They had plenty of eggs
and bread, for Mrs. Curwood raised hens and young chickens. Above all
else, the neighbors nearby thought the world of the Curwoods and
considered them “real, down-to-earth country people.”
As the winter of 1886 at last settled over them, Jimmie’s father and his
family settled down to a long, cold winter, snug and secure in their own
home, which by now was nearly paid for. The migration to Ohio had proved
itself successful in every respect. No longer did Jimmie persist in his
childish devilment, for there was neither the place nor the time for it.
CHAPTER TWO
A CHANGE COMES ABOUT
At the beginning of the winter of 1886 Jimmie found a new friend in
Clarence “Skinny” Hill, a new boy who had moved into the neighborhood.
Despite this newly formed friendship, “Whistling Jeanne” remained
Jimmie’s great comfort. For no matter how tired he might be at the end
of the day he could always turn to her for encouragement and fun.
Usually their nightly visits would begin just as darkness would settle
over the Ohio countryside. In the winter they would sit before the great
open fireplace and talk and plan. By summer they would be sitting on the
Fisher’s front porch steps and watch the sun sink beneath the western
horizon and twilight creep upon the world.
For it was there on the Fisher front steps that Jimmie and his Jeanne
would dream and plan for the future. Many are the nights that these two
were to be found there, with Jeanne telling him what would be the wisest
thing to do and how to set about doing it. He always listened
attentively and throughout his life he never forgot what she told him.
To him her words were words of wisdom and law, and he knew she was
right. She never told him anything that wasn’t true. Of this he was
sure.
It was just about this time in Jimmie Curwood’s life that everything
which was to prove itself worthwhile later in his life’s work began to
unfold.
Through constant reading, thinking and planning he had developed a mania
for wanting to see stories of his own in print by setting the words down
himself. Many were the times that his parents would have to speak to him
a dozen or more times a night in order to get him to turn out the lights
and go to bed. Seldom did Jimmie mind them on this account if he could
get around it, for by now he was deeply engrossed in his childish
writing career.
As for his ravenous reading, the boy could not put a book down until he
had read completely through it and thoroughly understood it. He craved
to express himself on paper and tried desperately to develop characters
such as those of famous writers whose stories he had read.
His appreciative sense of good writing at that age was truly unusual.
Like every other youngster Jimmie had to have his play as well as his
work. Thus his playtime had to cut in on his writing somewhat. So he
alternated his time between Jeanne, Skinny, his writing and his working
hours. Through this routine he managed to keep himself quite busy
throughout the day. At times he felt as if he had too much to do, but
still he enjoyed it all for life had taken on a new meaning.
As each succeeding day passed by the little farm began to mean more to
him than just a place in the country where hard labor was prevalent; it
became, instead, a place where one’s creative and imaginative powers
could function more properly. At that age little Jimmie Curwood, the
former “Tom Sawyer” of Owosso, was hoping for solitude so that he could
think more clearly and thus be able to turn his characters into more
lifelike people.
The remainder of that year passed rather uneventfully until the day of
his eighth birthday. On that day his father presented him with his first
gun, a brand new rifle.
* * * * *
The most amusing and yet the most serious incident that occurred in all
of Jimmie’s young life while on the farm in Ohio, was the night that he
“got religion.” He was nine years old.
It seems that a certain “Parson Brown” was holding revival meetings at
the little town of Joppa, which was just a mile distant from the Curwood
farm. Jimmie decided to see what it was all about. He had heard his
parents speak of “the meetings” that were being held in Joppa, quite
often. That night he trudged across the open fields, half afraid and
hardly knowing what to expect.
That night at Joppa, in the little country church as the excitement grew
to a fever’s pitch, Jimmie sat back and listened intently until he could
no longer suppress himself. He jumped up from his seat and ran to the
front of the church proclaiming that he had been saved and that the Holy
Ghost had entered his body and soul.
Young Jimmie was truly inspired and this incident played an important
part in his later life.
Until that moment his ideas concerning God and Heaven above had been
practically the same as those of any other normal boy or girl. That
heaven was just a place where all good people go, and that God was their
protector. Tonight all this was changed and at the age of nine years
Jimmie Curwood had already found God. It was a wonderful thing for this
lad to be able to do, and it must have remained as an inspiration with
him all the days of his life. Little did he realize, however, the
predicament it would get him into in the days to come.
At that meeting when he rushed to the front of the church to Parson
Brown proclaiming his faith and his belief, all eyes, of which there
were many, were focused upon the figure of the small boy. Pleasing
smiles came to every face when they discovered that a small boy was
claiming his Maker. It was a wonderful sight as the Parson led the
congregation in prayer and in song for the young boy as he knelt there
before the improvised altar. This was the important thing in his young
life that led Jim Curwood to the heights of success he later attained.
For he admitted to the public many years later this same admission of
faith.
“It was only through God Almighty that I have reached the pinnacle of
fame and success that I have.”
Shortly after the meeting had been adjourned, with the usual
benediction, Jimmie cut across the fields and through the dark woods
that he had heretofore been afraid to cross at night. He felt no fear,
for the spirit of the Holy Ghost was strong within him. He was reported
to have said a few days later:
“An angel went with me.”
From all indications one is led to believe that the angel that guided
and went with him was none other than the lovely Jeanne Fisher.
The following morning Jimmie awakened still feeling strong with the
religious spirit.
He felt strong with the spirit which had entered his body the night
before and he wanted the whole world to know all about it. Little did he
realize the blow that his inflated and loving disposition was to receive
in a short time. His parents thought it fine for this thing to have
happened to their son, but at the same time felt that other people might
object to it. Unfortunately enough, Jimmie could not control himself and
so to his schoolmates he told of his wonderful experience. As he spoke
of the new faith that had become his, his schoolmates promptly laughed
in his face.
“Ha! Ha! You’re crazy, Jimmie Curwood. You’re crazy!”
Then everyone took up the chant. On that day Jimmie found himself
involved in a total of five different fights, for he could not stand to
have anyone say that he was crazy because he believed in something which
was wonderful and something which had taken possession of his mind, body
and soul. However, like all youngsters eventually come to find, Jimmie
found that the flesh is weaker than the soul. From that day forth Jimmie
was still given drubbings from time to time.
During those hectic days one person other than his family stood beside
him to comfort and advise him. That person was his “Whistling Jeanne.”
Days lengthened into weeks and weeks into months and still Jimmie
continued to pick up stones on his father’s farmlands; stones that were
to later prove themselves to be “worth their weight in gold.”
The longer he remained at his daily task the more his air castles grew.
His vivid imagination gave rise to dreams and hopes of greater things.
All his visions and plans were strictly private and no one was allowed
to interfere with the young creative artist’s dreams. Not even little
Jeanne nor his pal Skinny was allowed to pierce their sacred portals.
What he felt, what he dreamed of, and what he planned to do were all
sacred thoughts and now vitally important to this nine-and-one-half year
old lad.
Long after the usual supper hour had been completed Jimmie would go to
his room to think and to plan and to write. Many were the times that his
mother had to beg her puzzling offspring to put his books aside and go
to bed in order to get the proper amount of rest. Jimmie’s mind was
thoroughly made up and he was really intent upon what he was working for
and seeking so desperately.
For six months or so Jimmie Curwood continued with his writing of his
childish though well-meant blood and thunder stories, stories which he
believed were truly fine.
It really did not matter to him upon what kind of paper he set his
stories down, just so long as they were written. He would pick up
wrapping paper and cut it into squares, or else if nothing else was
available he would write his stories on tissue paper which came in shoe
boxes.
As fast as he would complete one of his “swift moving, red-blooded
yarns,” he would carefully file it away as best as any young schoolboy
could possibly do. Writing was in his blood and it was taking complete
possession of his every thought and action.
It was only after he had completed some twenty “thrillers” that he
brought the entire stack down from his room and asked his parents if he
might read his stories to them. There naturally was no hesitation on
their part, for they were anxious to see their youngest child pursue a
career such as he was now doing. So for several hours Jimmie’s parents
were silent as their “pride and joy” went on with his avid reading. That
night the boy read through the entire stack of manuscripts, taking some
three hours and a half to complete the job. When he had finished his
father walked over to him at the far end of the long kitchen table.
“You’re going to get there, Jimmie boy, you’re going to get there. Just
you keep at it!”
The boy smiled, for those few words of encouragement meant a great deal
to one who wanted to be a great writer.
He silently picked up his stories, went to his room and filed them away
again. Hardly five minutes had elapsed before he was back at his
improvised desk to start work on a new story.
At twelve-thirty that night the boy at last put away his pencils and his
papers and went to bed. Rather late for a young, growing boy to retire,
but his heart and soul were really in his newly-found work. With the
coming day he was to have one of his greatest childhood surprises.
In the next day’s mail came the wonderful news that Jimmie’s sister Amy,
who had remained behind in her own home in Owosso when the family had
gone to Ohio, was coming to visit them. Since he had not seen Amy for a
long time he was indeed overjoyed at the prospects of her home-coming.
Three days passed until she at last arrived. Only a few short seconds
after she had entered the house, Jimmie remarked:
“Gosh, Amy, you’ve changed!”
Almost from the very beginning of her visit Jimmie began telling her of
his stories and shyly asked her to help him. He wanted her to read them
and to tell him just what she really thought. Sister Amy’s interest in
her younger brother’s career as a forthcoming author was not casual, but
really of great concern.
She did everything in her power as a woman and as a sister to encourage
her kid brother and to help him in every way possible. She even went so
far as to check his make shift manuscripts for the errors in
punctuation, sentence structure and spelling.
Perhaps the greatest step she took in the furthering of her brother’s
career was to arouse the interest of Fred Janette, great newspaperman
and contributor to _Golden Days_ magazine.
To Jimmie this “introduction” was nothing short of a miracle. To get the
great Fred Janette interested in his writings was indeed a mighty step
toward his future as an author.
Now with the noted journalist interested in him, together with his
sister’s constant coaxing, Jimmie was at last persuaded to send one of
his seemingly impossible creations to the editor of _Happy Hours_
magazine. Amy knew her brother’s work was not of literary quality but
merely wanted to see the editor’s reaction and just how the manuscript
would be treated. So the hand-written story was posted and within a few
days, as was expected, the postman returned it with a neatly printed
rejection slip attached to it.
The feature of it all was that the slip bore words of kind encouragement
to the aspiring author. For the editor of _Happy Hours_ realized that a
child had submitted the script and had judged it accordingly.
The little pink slip assured the boy that if he would keep everlastingly
at it he would eventually succeed in having his stories published. From
that time on his rapidly maturing mind was on nothing else save that of
writing. School and work entered into his everyday routine, of course,
but even while he was attending to these duties he still was thinking of
writing.
To add to his happiness he received in the mail one day a letter from
Fred Janette himself asking the boy to send him one of his stories.
Jimmie was jubilant. The very next day Amy mailed out one of her
brother’s very best manuscripts which she herself had transcribed for
legibility.
Several days elapsed before the anxiously waiting Curwood family
received any word on the judgment of Jimmie’s story. Eventually it came
through. Mr. Janette was returning the manuscript but on the fly leaf
was the following inscription:
“Keep at it, fellow, you cannot fail!”
Those words meant a great deal to Jimmie, and the manuscript bearing
those words remains today, yellow with age, in Curwood Castle.
Now satisfied that she had helped her brother as best she could, Amy
returned to Owosso.
From that moment hence Jimmie Curwood could not be held down in the
reaching of his ultimate goal. Guided by that ever present desire to
become wealthy, famous and to create his own characters on his own pages
in his own stories, Jimmie Curwood probably never knew exactly when to
quit writing once he had commenced. He drove himself unmercifully toward
that which he desired so much. It seems almost unreasonable to think
that a lad of his age was capable of such determination, but facts
cannot be denied or doubted. Inspiration is one thing, while
encouragement and help is still another. That which he knew so well
could not be suppressed. It was there within him, germinating his mind,
tormenting his soul.
It has often been said that a suppressed thought in the mind of a
creative writer is the worst possible thing for him to endure. He may
endure all the hardships of life that are thrown in his path, but a
suppressed idea or thought germinating in his mind, is fiendish torture.
Such must have undoubtedly been the case of Jimmie Curwood at that young
age.
Although Amy had returned to Owosso she wrote her brother every week,
sending him hope and inspiration. Fred Janette from time to time wrote
to the boy urging him to keep at his work. Even between times in his
writing as Jimmie would be picking up stones again or else at some other
type of farm labor, he experienced thrills that he had not known before.
He knew he was accomplishing something, creating that which no one could
destroy.
As he continued piling stone on stone and as they began to take form,
Jimmie imagined that they were great castles which held gallant princes
and lovely princesses. He envisioned heroes who possessed more courage
and more valor than any other earthly mortal. They fought long, hard,
bitter battles, always to be victorious in the end. The developing of
this vivid imagination at this early age in life was one of the direct
causes for Jimmie’s rise to fame.
For the first time since his dreams and plans had begun to materialize,
Jimmie at last shared his ideas with his “Whistling Jeanne.” She knew
all of his fondest hopes and his aspirations, and she prayed for him and
fought for him in many of his schoolboy tussles.
She alone stood up for him because he was so much smaller than the
majority of the other boys and she was old enough and capable enough to
manage most of them. She stood up for him when she knew he was wrong.
She even talked Mrs. Curwood out of a great deal of spankings that were
due the lad and which he surely would have received had it not have been
for her. Although five years his senior, Jimmie looked upon her as being
of his own age and even younger, perhaps.
It might be said that Jimmie Curwood had loved Jeanne in his own silent,
youthful, schoolboy way. He adored, in silent worship, her great blue
eyes, her thick braids of radiant brown hair and her flawless
complexion. As a matter of fact everyone loved little Jeanne Fisher, but
as Jim Curwood once said later in life:
“Everyone loved her, but none so devoutly as I.”
In the winter of 1884 when James Curwood and his family moved into the
little farm in Ohio, Jeanne Fisher took it upon herself to see that the
Curwoods became her friends. The lovely Jeanne was lonely and needed
friendships besides those of schoolmates.
For, from the time school was dismissed in the afternoon until the
following morning, she was entirely alone with her parents. No
playmates, no neighbors lived within a mile of her home.
So when the Curwoods came, Jeanne quickly presented herself. It was a
strange new land to Jimmie as well as to his parents and consequently
they all welcomed her friendly approach. She tried and she succeeded in
making the young boy feel at home in his new neighborhood. From that
time on, nothing save death could separate the pair.
By the nickname of “Whistling Jeanne,” one would be led to believe that
the girl was a “tom-boy,” and so she was, to a certain extent. Her
kindness for Jimmie, however, would surely tempt one to believe to the
contrary. For when Jimmie nicknamed her “Whistling Jeanne,” he did so
because he loved to hear her incessant whistling. She would whistle
regardless of how much trouble she might be in, or no matter how low her
spirits might be. At times she was very much a young lady of the first
rank; but she could become a regular “tom-boy” if the occasion called
for it. She was a swift runner, a good tree climber, an excellent shot
with a rifle and she could put up as good a fight as most boys of her
own age are capable of. Still she was every inch a young lady. Quiet and
refined as the occasion demanded. She did not believe in being inactive,
believing that one should keep one’s body as well as one’s mind
occupied.
Only a few short months after Jimmie had launched himself on a literary
career Jeanne’s guiding influence was tossed to the four winds by the
reckless, though well-meaning, lad. For at that time he came under the
influence and thumb of the school bully. Everything that could have
happened to a schoolboy who was being led astray happened to Jimmie
Curwood. He was now almost eleven years of age while Jeanne was nearly
sixteen.
One morning during the first semester of school Jimmie made a terrible
mistake in one of his lessons as well as having been guilty of a boyish
misdemeanor.
“Jimmie Curwood, if you don’t correct yourself and apologize for your
intended error, I shall box your ears,” the elderly lady teacher
informed him. Sitting directly behind him was the school bully.
On more than one occasion he had caused trouble and he was once again up
to his old pranks. He whispered to Jimmie and told him just what to do.
It is at this age that young boys get to feel pretty important if they
can hold the limelight for a while.
At first Jimmie hesitated, but when the bully called him a coward, he
blurted out:
“You don’t dare to do it!”
The entire classroom instantly became ghastly silent, for the students
realized only too well that this meant trouble. They also knew that the
bully was directing Jimmie and he too was afraid of what the
consequences might be.
The lady teacher demanded that Jimmie come immediately to the front of
the room. The boy was timid and afraid, but at the same time he admired
the bully for his brawn and straight-forward actions. Urged on, Jimmie
got up from his seat and moved slowly toward his teacher. As he stood
there in front of her “the bombshell exploded.”
The good teacher informed him of his punishment and then, following the
instructions and directions of the over-grown boy, Jimmie proceeded to
give his teacher a very sound drubbing, much to the bully’s delight. Not
only was the teacher chagrined, but she was touched and hurt deeply.
After the hectic battle, which Jimmie nearly lost because of his
teacher’s extra poundage, only the bully congratulated him. The others
said nothing. Then, like most boys after committing a wrong, Jimmie came
to his senses, apologized and received his punishment like a man. In due
course, the elder Curwood learned of his son’s escapade, and he, too,
acted accordingly. Eventually Jimmie returned to school and apologized
for the second time to his teacher. Needless to say she realized that
Jimmie felt it had all been his fault. She accepted his apology and
reinstated him in school.
Unfortunately, however, this did not end the boy’s associations with the
prodigious bully. Once again, after much coaxing, the bully took him in
hand. In order to increase his prestige in the younger boy’s eyes, the
older and larger lad proceeded to thoroughly trounce a big, strapping
German boy. All of this occurred just a few days after the first
escapade. Once more the light of adoration began to shine in Jimmie’s
eyes. This reoccurrence of the friendship fortunately led to one of the
greatest turning points in Jim Curwood’s entire life.