should take more than three baths a week and in a short time he was to
be found in the tub almost every night. Another thing which was called
to his attention was that he should always keep his fingernails clean,
that a tie should always be worn, and above all that he should keep his
shoes blacked every day without fail. Mother Curwood as well as her
husband had noticed the tremendous change that had come over their young
offspring and were pleased by it. Their coming to Wakeman seemed to be
proving itself worthwhile.
In a few short weeks arrived that which young Jim Curwood had been
looking forward to with great anticipation—the beginning of the fall
term in the school to which he had traveled so far and on which so many
of his hopes were based. Here Jim became interested in something which
was to remain with him all the days of his life—Astronomy.
Through the teachings of this new subject Jim developed an entirely
different conception of God. He came to know and to realize then that
God had created this earth as a center of things, and that we were most
fortunate to have been chosen to live upon it. He believed then that God
had created all this for mankind alone, that man was everything. That
the birds, the beasts of the wilds, and the fish of the streams did not
matter. He believed then, as so many millions do today, that those
creatures were put here just for man to slaughter if he so desired....
Winter came and passed all too soon for Jim and it was not until spring
arrived that he learned of his family’s plans to leave Wakeman and
return to the farm. He also made the startling discovery at this time
that he had not learned much more here than he had back at the little
red brick schoolhouse. True, he had learned city life and all of its
startling realities, but it was the little red school house back there
in the country that he yearned for.
When but one more week was left for the Curwood family to remain in
Wakeman, brother Ed came into town with the team and wagon, while Mr.
Curwood made all final preparations. Talk of the farm, the fields and
the streams had turned Jim’s thoughts entirely to the open spaces once
again.
With Ed and his father riding along on the wagon, Mrs. Curwood followed
along behind in the buggy. Jim had still other ideas since Ed had
brought his dog Jack along. So for most of the eight long, dusty miles,
Jim and his faithful hound Jack played and walked behind the caravan.
It has always been said that early impressions in life bear greatly upon
one’s future. So it was then in Jim Curwood’s case. His life on the farm
as a child taught him more and more the love of the open roads and the
forests. For on that day when the family returned to their farm, eight
miles distant from Wakeman, Jim exclaimed:
“Gosh Mom, it’s great to be back home again! The woods are so full of
wild flowers, and the old pond is crowded with big, old frogs, too.”
Skinny Hill, having heard from Ed that the family was once more going to
return to the neighborhood, had been on the watch for his pal Jim since
shortly after daybreak. And hardly had the creaky old wagon and buggy
rounded the bend in the road than Skinny was running for all he was
worth to meet his chum. In his left hand was an old, black felt hat
which he was waving wildly above his head, as he shouted and whistled.
“Hello, Slip! Hello there, Slip!”
The two youngsters did not even shake hands or clasp each other in their
arms. Instead they both just stood there in the middle of the dusty road
with wide grins.
“My gosh, you’re home, ain’t you?” Skinny spoke breathlessly.
“Yep!”
With those few words Jim and Skinny started walking up the road behind
the buggy and wagon.
During the following three days Skinny and Jim were running all over the
surrounding territory looking over together what they had claimed to be
their own several months before. Through the wooded strips and across
the fields they went, taking in all the glory of “secret country.”
Through all of the busy and crowded months in Wakeman Jim had almost
forgotten the one person who was more important to him in his young life
than any other. But hardly had he set foot in the front yard of the old
farm than he saw her. Immediately his pulse quickened. It was lovely
Jeanne, his “Whistling Jeanne.”
The very first thing which he noticed was how tall she had grown during
his absence, and her stunning beauty spun his senses about wildly. He
could hardly believe what his eyes revealed.
“Something queer happened to my heart when she caught me up in her arms
and kissed me. My Jeanne was changed.”
In a few minutes Jeanne had once again won her old place back in his
heart. That feeling of security and comfort was his, as it had been
before, now that he had his Jeanne back to console him during those
times when things went wrong.
Hardly had the family a chance to really settle down again than Jim was
once more beginning to write.
In the town of Wakeman he had become acquainted with a motherly old lady
who had thought a great deal of him. So much so, in fact, that when he
asked her for some of her old magazines, she not only complied with that
request, but also went to the nearest drugstore and purchased a “dozen
brand new ones” for him.
There on the little farm when his daily chores were over, Jim would sit
out under the trees with Jeanne and Skinny, and pore over the contents
and the wonderful stories by famous authors. The smouldering flame that
was embedded within his heart for adventure stories and the yearning to
write them was overpowering.
It is seldom that a boy of young Jim Curwood’s age should take so great
an interest in such a mature profession. But he seemed to be able to
look into the future and almost say what was going to take place, so
confident was he. It seems almost uncanny that a young lad could have
such a vivid imagination and at the same time learn to put it into words
and story form. But a great deal of Jim’s success can rightfully be
credited to Jeanne Fisher. Obviously this is true, for throughout his
entire literary career, the character and the beauty of “Whistling
Jeanne” was always there.
She used to tell him that he must write harder than ever and then some
day he could put her into his stories.
If only she could know how many times, hundreds of times in fact, she
really was written into his stories. Who knows? Perhaps she does.
So, as the sun began to set over the two little farms in the peaceful
Ohio valley on that first evening of Jim’s return, it once again found
Jeanne and Jim together. And as the evening wore itself into the
darkness of night time, Jeanne refrained from talking of his future
authorship, but upon subjects instead which were more vital to her. She
had not stopped to realize that during his stay in Wakeman her Jim had
become more and more entrenched in the path of becoming a famous writer
of tales. As the night began to grow long Jim at last began pouring out
his heart to her, and then Jeanne Fisher realized only too well that to
talk of anything else save writing was a hopeless task.
Jim explained to her how he had lingered over the many new magazines
that he had seen in Wakeman; how he idolized the printed names of the
famous authors whose articles and stories he had read. He told of how
his heart beat just a little faster as he completed reading each new
story. How he had read and reread every story in every magazine that he
could put his hands on. Little did he realize it at the time, but he was
developing a style all his own through all this extensive reading that
was later to lead him to fame. He even became breathless as he explained
how his heart had missed a beat every now and then as he read those
adventure stories. Tales of Indian scouts, strong, brave cowboys, and
fearless Indian chieftains. Stories of dauntless seamen who sailed the
seven seas unafraid in search of gold and silver.
“Whistling Jeanne” Fisher realized to the utmost that night that
“literature was the guiding star of his destiny.” She came to realize
also that nothing save death would stop the young, yet determined, Jim
Curwood. He had it in him to write, he had something to say and to tell
about, and she knew that some day he would get his chance to tell it.
Either he would get his chance or he would _make_ that chance.
Like most men of literature, a writer must have something to say,
something to tell. From the age of eight, Jim Curwood had a story to
tell and he always did his best to tell it in an unsurpassed manner. His
courage in the face of great odds is indeed commendable.
The character of “Whistling Jeanne” has played the major roles in most
of Jim Curwood’s short stories, serials and novels. Her character and
her beauty were, above all else, inspirational and courageous.
The character of Melisse in “The Honor of the Big Snows,” Josephine
Conniston in “The River’s End,” and Jeanne in “The Flower of the North,”
are just a few of the heroines for whom her lovable character has been
responsible. These novels have been filmed and flashed on the movie
screens throughout the world, and his novels have been translated and
written into over fourteen different languages. “Whistling Jeanne”
Fisher’s character was truly an important part in Jim Curwood’s
childhood days.
With all of the words of hope, courage, inspiration and wisdom which
came from those “rareripe lips,” how could Jim go wrong? How could he
help but to succeed? For even in his childhood days he was constantly
filled with inspiration, hope and above all else, confidence. For with
those words of encouragement the boy firmly planted his feet and vowed
earnestly that nothing save death could ever keep him from becoming a
great author. An author whose works would give to the people of the
world hope and courage to push onward. Today, nearly fifty-seven years
later, those works which he spoke about at the age of thirteen have
given hope and courage to many millions of people throughout the entire
world.
There is little doubt but that those early childhood days on the farm
down in Ohio were the days which proved invaluable in the shaping of Jim
Curwood’s destiny.
CHAPTER FOUR
OWOSSO SCHOOLDAYS
Day after day while on long hikes through the forests and along the
river’s banks, Jim Curwood would try valiantly to explain to his chum,
Skinny, the urge and desire that was burning constantly in his heart.
Unfortunately enough, Skinny Hill could not see things in quite the same
light as Jim did and consequently he raised argument after argument. At
times when he would grow tired of hearing Jim talk about a writing
career he would very nearly lose his temper.
Fortunately, Jim Curwood had the ambition and the determination to be a
writer and no one on the face of God’s green earth could stop him. The
youngster actually prayed for the opportunity to go to great schools. He
prayed for the one chance, the lone chance, of really becoming a
“somebody.”
“I knew with God beside me that my goal could not be too far off. Hard
work, and hard work alone, with confidence in the Great Arbiter, are the
keys to success.”
From that time on Jim Curwood did all in his power in order that he
might pave his own way to success.
Valiantly he fought the odds that were stacked against him, determined
to make the grade and come through with flying colors. However, at times
he would lose all hope. Then for a moment, he would stop and think about
defeat and what it would mean. The next moment would find him back at
work, his determination multiplied a hundred times over. It seems
miraculous that such a young lad of Jim Curwood’s age could not be kept
down in his battle for success at the one thing in life he wanted.
As days developed into weeks and weeks into months, it dawned more and
more on the boy that unless he went away somewhere to study, it would be
a hopeless task to try to be a “somebody.” It is quite plain that his
mind was much more developed than his age revealed.
Like manna from heaven, his sister Amy, from Michigan, came down to
visit the family a few days later. Jim thanked his lucky stars, for he
realized only too well that his sister not only could help him, but
would be most glad to. His young and adventurous mind began working
rapidly from the very first day that Amy arrived on the farm. He felt
that with Amy’s influence it might be possible for him to go away to
school. For several days and nights he thought the situation over before
he put the question to his sister. He lay awake at nights thinking up
various situations by which he could induce Amy to take him away with
her. This was his one big chance and he knew that he must not miss it.
A few days after her arrival he called her to one side and spoke to her
about his plans and his dreams. From the very beginning, Amy used a
great deal of tact in handling the situation.
“Amy ... Amy, will you do me a favor?” he asked.
“What is it you want me to do, Jimmy?”
“Amy, I want to go away to school and study. I want to be a great author
and the only way I can be one is to go to school!”
“Do you really want to go away to school and study, Jimmy?”
“You know I do, sis, oh, you know I do. I must! I just have to, Amy. Try
and fix it with Mom and Dad. Please!”
“Then I shall talk to Mother and Dad and see if they won’t consent to
letting you go back to Owosso with me.”
Amy lost no time in beginning her work of persuasion on Mr. and Mrs.
Curwood. They objected very much when the proposition was first
mentioned and Amy worked feverishly to wear them down. Apparently they
wanted to keep their youngest child with them and had no intentions of
letting him go all the way back to the old home town of Owosso unless
they, too, went along.
Amy spent many long hours pleading with her parents to let her brother
go back with her, until the last thread of resistance had been worn away
and she had won her first battle for her brother. If she had only known
at the time the battles she was to have to wage for him in the future!
When Amy told Jim the good news he fairly raised the roof of the
farmhouse with his jubilant howls of happiness. He vowed to his parents
in his own childlike manner that some day they would be very proud of
him.
As the days passed by and the time neared when Jim Curwood would once
again leave the little farm, he would notice tears in his mother’s eyes
occasionally, despite the fact that she tried not to show them. His
father became much more thoughtful, and Jack, Jim’s faithful dog who
always went with Skinny and himself on their hikes through the country
side, followed the boy around in an extremely strange manner. He seemed
to sense in his keen, canine way that his young master was going to
leave him. Little did Jim realize that the day he bade farewell to his
family and to his dog Jack it would be the last he would ever see either
the dog or the farm itself.
It was exactly a month to the day after the boy had gone to Owosso that
the good animal died.
Never before in all of his young life had Jim Curwood hated to leave his
loved ones, despite the fact that he was determined to leave. His mother
cried out as her little son climbed aboard the old buckboard with his
sister:
“He isn’t my little boy anymore!”
As if this wasn’t enough to bring tears to his eyes, his beloved Jeanne
began crying, too. Somehow father Curwood held up even though there were
tugs at his heart strings. As his youngest child climbed onto the
buckboard he calmly walked up to him and shook his hand as two men would
do and asked him to take good care of himself.
After a great many fond farewells, embraces and goodbyes, Amy and Jim
started on their way toward Michigan, the land that seemed so far away.
In the middle of the road as Jimmy looked back after they were on their
way, he saw his mother, father, brother Ed, Skinny, Jeanne and the
Fishers all waving farewell. A great lump swelled up in his throat for
he saw his dear old mother sobbing her heart out and leaning upon her
husband’s shoulder. Jeanne, too, was crying, but his old pal Skinny was
too hurt to weep. He wanted to, but somehow tears would just not come.
The last words Jim Curwood heard before the little buckboard was out of
hearing distance was from Skinny who was standing in the middle of the
hot, dusty road, shouting and waving.
“Goodbye, Slip. Gee, I’ll never see you again.”
It was a long, hard and exciting trip as Jimmy and Amy made their way in
the buckboard drawn by two fine horses to the then small town of Owosso.
The young lad was tingling with excitement at the prospects of seeing
his home town again. The town in which he was born and where he had had
some wonderful days playing along the river banks. But he still was
constantly thinking of his father and mother as only a young boy of his
age is capable of doing.
Jim had been away from Owosso for nearly seven years now, and as they
drove past the city limits he hardly recognized it as the same place. It
seemed to have grown a great deal and many new buildings had been
erected. The bumpy old streets of old had been worked over and now were
comparatively smooth.
Unable to wait until the following day to see his home town again, Jimmy
persuaded Amy to take him around the day of their arrival.
One of the first things he noticed was that his old home had been
transformed into a hotel. And the room in which he had been born was now
a room for drummers and salesmen. There were no hickory trees growing in
the streets, there were no fowls roaming about at will as they once did,
and giant pines and willows which once had filled the great commons were
replaced by stores and buildings.
Today the city of Owosso has 15,000 residents, and is more beautiful
than it was in the days of old. Looking out of the studio windows of a
wonderful writing castle which lies along the banks of the waters of the
Shiawassee river, there can be seen one place that shall never be shed
of the willows that wave so gently in the breeze. It is the little
island in the very center of the river which flows through Owosso in a
great sweeping bend. The willow trees on this small island bend their
graceful boughs almost down to the water’s edge and sway back and forth
continually in the cool morning and evening breezes.
Days passed rather rapidly after Jimmy returned to Owosso and the
hottest days of summer were soon upon the little town. The natural thing
for him to do was to look up his childhood pals and head for the river
to fish and to swim. But try as he might, Jimmy could find nothing of
his former Owosso pal, Charley Miller. It seemed that since Charley’s
father had passed away no one had seen anything of the boy.
Perhaps the one thing which Jim loved above all else in his home town
was the beautiful Shiawassee, glorious river of his childhood dreams,
that flowed in graceful curves throughout the length of Owosso
constantly beckoning him to its banks to swim and fish.
Owosso itself had prospered, of that there was little doubt. And its
people had changed with the influx of prosperity. But to Jim Curwood it
was home and when he grew older he was overheard to say:
“Many ties bind me to it and always I return there, no matter into what
little-known byways of the world I wander. In Owosso I shall end my
journey.”
[Illustration: _J.C. WEBER._]
It took young Jim just a couple of days to become readjusted to his old
home town and again “Sparkling Waters” lured the youthful outdoorsman to
its banks. This was the place where Charley and he had played before he
had moved away to Ohio. The place where they hunted, trapped, fished and
swam along its peaceful shores. There is little wonder why he always
referred to it not only as “Sparkling Waters,” but also as his “river of
dreams.” For it was along the banks of this river that many of his
childhood dreams developed into realities and where he learned his first
lesson about nature and the wilds he learned to love so well. It was
here that the many stories that ran rampant in his childish mind later
flowed from his pen.
The third day of his return found him with a pole and line headed for
the river to fish. In those days he would lay his pole over his shoulder
with the line dangling down and stroll through town barefooted. A
typical “Tom Sawyer,” if the city of Owosso ever saw one.
His bare feet would saunter along the pavement but would step lightly
when he came to cindered paths. He wore an old hat slouched down upon
his sun-bleached hair which had no crown in it whatsoever. His
pants-legs were torn and frayed and his shirt-tail was out in the back
as always. Those truly were the glorious days of childhood.
During the first days of his return with his sister Amy, young Jimmy
spent many hours along the river banks and pulled out a great deal of
fish. Many people often remarked that if he did not let up on his
fishing there soon would be no fish in the river for other people.
After a week had elapsed Amy told Jim that she was taking him to visit
the great newspaperman, Fred Janette. You may speak of surprises, but
Jim Curwood was just about the most surprised and thrilled young man in
all of Michigan when his sister broke the good news to him. Who had not
heard of the great Fred Janette? He himself had even read one of his
newspaper serials. Now, at long last he was going to meet a famous
writer! The young lad was thrilled beyond all explaining. In fact, he
hardly dared believe it. It did not seem at all possible. But sister Amy
had told him and so therefore it must be true. The young boy could
hardly wait for the important day to arrive.
The day arrived for the visit and Amy took her young brother to the
wonderful home of Fred Janette, author and newspaperman. It seemed
wonderful to Jim, but in reality Mr. Janette’s home was a modest one. It
was an old fashioned cottage. To Jim Curwood it was the home and mansion
of a king. Soon would come the moment when he would step across the
threshold, he thought. He walked nervously up the winding concrete walk
with his sister. The doorbell was rung and soon they were greeted by a
tall, whiskered Frenchman whom Jim later came to love devoutly. Then
they were confronted by a white-headed, kindly old lady who was the
mother of the great author. From that day on Mrs. Janette always held a
warm spot in his heart.
After they had been admitted to the house sister Amy chatted and laughed
with Mrs. Janette and it seemed strange to Jim that she was not in the
least bit awed by these famous personalities, even though he was.
It was ages before a door swung open and the “great writer” himself
entered. Being the gentleman and scholar that he was, Janette
immediately shook hands with the boy as if he had known him all his
life. Knowing that he would have to be very careful in what he said,
lest he offend the youngster, he exclaimed:
“So this is our young author!”
From that moment on, Jim Curwood was sold on Fred Janette as Mr. Janette
was on young Mr. Curwood.
As soon as the introductions were over, Janette promptly took Jim by the
hand and led him into his den. Then he locked the door behind them. As
the key turned in the lock, the youngster was so thrilled that he could
hardly speak. For the first time he was actually looking at a real
author’s study. True, it was just like any other author’s studio, but
this was the first that Jim had ever been in. The walls were lined with
books, there were two typewriters, reams and reams of paper upon which
to write wonderful stories, and numerous filing cabinets in which to
file material. He took in everything from the floor up to the ceiling.
He had never seen anything that thrilled him so in all his life.
Behind the closed door. Fred Janette showed the aspiring young writer a
cheque for three hundred dollars that the editor of _Golden Days_
Magazine had sent him for one of his latest creations. This, of course,
seemed like a million dollars to Jim and he gasped at the sight of it.
Then Janette proceeded to explain to him just what his regular daily
schedule was, how he went about doing his work and even showed him a
story he was working on for a certain magazine.
Janette invited Jimmy to sit down at his desk and use the typewriter if
he so desired. This seemed to the boy to be a great honor; he walked
over to the large desk and sat down upon the chair. And as he sat there
looking over the mass of papers and manuscripts, Janette told him:
“You cannot help but become successful if you put your whole heart into
your writing.”
Perhaps the one thing which the youngster appreciated more than anything
else about Janette was the fact that the grown man was careful not to
treat him merely as a child.