that was to last a lifetime. From that moment on, James Oliver Curwood
never ceased writing. Every second that was available was spent with a
pencil or pen in his hand, for writing had taken complete possession of
him and it all but drove him frantic as his mind was continually upon
the work that was destined to become his only life work. He had to eat
and sleep, but he must also WRITE! WRITE! WRITE!
At last, though all too soon, summer had come to a close and school days
were once more at hand. He enrolled in Central School the very first
day, but he could not understand why he had come all the way from the
farm in Ohio to go to school here in Owosso, and still find it so very
uninteresting. The chances are, however, that the writing “bug” had
become his first and only love, thus making it quite difficult for him
to study. Perhaps one of the factors which seemed to make Jim Curwood’s
schooling both uninteresting and hard was the class he was placed in
when he entered school in Owosso. For he was put in the seventh grade
because of his ungentlemanlike feats at Wakeman and his vulgar tactics
under Mrs. Bacon. Obviously this was not the rating he deserved, but the
teachers at Central School seemed to think it best. They did not know
young Curwood was returning to school “to study.”
This of course was a very bad beginning when one has made up one’s mind
that he really wants to be someone, and young Jim was indeed very much
“burned up over this treatment.” Despite this barrier, he “muddled
through somehow,” as he chose to put it, until he had finished the tenth
grade.
Many times, according to authoritative sources, Jimmy Curwood was
referred to as “a hopeless horror” in Algebra, by a Miss Curliss. A Miss
Needles always maintained that Jim Curwood was hopelessly dumb and could
never be any other way. Then there was a small man by the name of
Chaffee who once remarked that the boy’s empty mind was the outstanding
feature of the Owosso schools. The Miss Curliss was perhaps Jimmie’s
greatest dread. Time and time again she embarrassed him before the
entire class. On one particular occasion she called him an
“unforgettable horror in her mind,” when Jim staunchly maintained that a
“skipper” was a bug in cheese rather than the master of a ship.
There was but one bright spot in all of Jim’s schooling in Owosso, and
that was a very pretty and charming teacher named Miss Boyce. Despite
the many mistakes he would make in class she never lost patience with
him and was always encouraging and cheerful. Years later when the
“plague of Owosso” became a full grown man and an author in his own
right, he remarked:
“To Miss Boyce and Miss Bartrem, who never lost interest in me, is due
what little I actually did accomplish there.”
Then, too, there was the principal of the school, Professor Austin by
name. He was a kind and understanding man and he sympathized with Jim in
his goings and comings up and down the Shiawassee river, even though he
did not approve of it during school hours. The principal once told him
bluntly that if he ever heard of a prize for stupidity in the classroom,
he would see that it was awarded to him. It was such things as these,
trivial as they may seem to some of us, that made Jim Curwood’s early
schooldays in Owosso ones of endless terror and seemingly hopeless
failure.
When at last the fall season was over and the cold winter months were at
hand when the snow would pile up as high as three and four feet deep,
Jimmy would be up at the crack of dawn and out along the banks of the
Shiawassee setting his traps for muskrat and mink. He would catch scores
of them between the two bridges at Washington and Oliver streets. The
two streets were a little over a quarter of a mile apart, and were in
the very heart of the residential section, as they are even today.
By the time his second school year began the “Sparkling Waters” had
absolutely claimed him. In his possession he had countless traps,
several guns and an Indian dugout canoe.
Actually being of Indian-strain himself, it is little wonder that Jim
Curwood haunted the lakes, streams and wilds. His maternal grandmother
had been a full-blooded Mohawk Indian princess. This was, perhaps, a
prime factor in his urge to isolate himself in the wilderness which had
left its imprint embedded deep in his heart. But he was also a direct
descendant of Captain Frederick A. Marrayat, world famous novelist and
seaman, and Jimmy’s paternal grandfather.
So it is understandable how, of all the students at Owosso public
schools, perhaps the most difficult and indignant one was James Oliver
Curwood. When he was not present in school he was either writing tales
of the wilds, or living them along the banks of the rivers nearby. In
fact he had absented himself from classes on many occasions to devote
more time to his stories. Jim Curwood finally developed into a real
problem for his teachers in high school.
One day as he quietly came tip-toeing to his seat while Professor Austin
was in the middle of an invocation, the teacher caught sight of him and
completed what he had to say with: “And dear Lord, we thank Thee for
returning Nimrod safely to us this morning.” From that day forward his
nickname at school was “Nimrod.”
It was during the first winter of his return to Owosso that Jim received
an important letter from his father in Ohio. The elder Curwood wrote
that, unless he could find some way to get back to Owosso to make a
living, he, Jimmy, would have to come back to the farm. His mother
missed him terribly and yearned to have her baby son back in her home.
Both sister Amy and Jim were overjoyed. But the young boy was torn
between love and duty. The little farm was tugging at his heartstrings
once more as were his “Sparkling Waters” here in Owosso. Still, he had
his duty to his parents to consider, and if they remained on the little
farm, he just could not make up his mind what he preferred to do.
The letter from his father had brought back memories that heretofore he
had tried to conceal. Now he yearned for the old farm, his dog Jack, his
parents and last, but far from least, Jeanne and Skinny. But he loved
his Owosso and its surroundings, he loved his river and his wilderness
with a burning, flaming passion. What was he to do? Sister Amy simply
told him to wait until they saw how things were going to shape up.
From that time on until the arrival of spring Amy and Jim received but
one letter from their parents. Then one warm, spring day in April, who
should arrive at Amy’s home than Mr. and Mrs. Curwood, with Jim’s other
sister, Cora. It was such a pleasant surprise.
Once again father Curwood established himself in a little cobbling shop
with the front all painted a fiery red. He was taking up where he had
left off eight years before.
Brother Ed had remained behind to run the farm, so that in the event
that things did not go so good for his father in Owosso, the family
would then have something to fall back upon.
For many years father Curwood had mended other people’s shoes in his
old-fashioned way, with needles, thread and wooden pegs. One of his
outstanding characteristics was that he never shirked his work and never
did less than his best. Because he was the kindly old gentleman that he
was, he was always held in high esteem by the townsfolk. His politeness
and courteousness were appreciated by all who knew him. Many years
passed since the time he had made his return to Owosso and again set up
in his cobbling shop. His hair grew white from his hard work, but he
always kept his head high and stood as straight as any soldier. Jim
often said that no son could have had a finer father than he.
Shortly after his fifteenth birthday young Jim secured employment in
Fred Crowe’s grocery store. Here he worked on Saturdays and earned fifty
cents for his day’s labor. At this time in his life this small sum
seemed like a small fortune.
Work or play, as he chose, the young aspiring writer always found time
to hide away to do his daily stint of writing that was in years to come
to net him several hundreds of thousands of dollars. He loved to go
where it was peaceful and quiet. It seemed that his best work always
came when he was in a quiet corner of the world.
Writing as he did at this age (and that was a great deal), Jim had not
as yet mustered up enough courage to send any of his stories out to the
publishing houses.
The spring following the fall that Mr. Curwood and his family had moved
back to Owosso to rejoin their youngest son Jim, he bought a nice little
home on the one sweeping bend of the Shiawassee river in all of the
town. It was a two-storied affair and from Jim’s room upstairs he would
sit and look out over the river and commons that were filled with some
of the most beautiful trees in all of Michigan.
Shortly after moving to the new house, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood outfitted
their writing son with a desk and a table for his own room, as well as a
second hand Caligraph typewriter. At last Jim had his own study, his own
private study. The young lad felt that he was now on an equal basis with
the great writer Fred Janette and proceeded to decorate his room in much
the same manner as Mr. Janette’s.
Here he knew that he could work without interruption and fear of being
disturbed. Here he could lock the door and write as much and as long as
he wanted to.
Just outside the window below him as he sat at his desk was his river,
flowing gracefully and silently along as it made its way in a final
sweeping bend before entering the surrounding wilds. The thought that
entered Jim’s mind when he first sat down to write was: “Surely I can
get an inspiration here!”
Time quickly passed by, and as time flew, so did young Jim Curwood’s
stories. For just as fast as he would complete one story on the
second-hand typewriter, he would begin another one.
One of the most enjoyable things to him at this age was after the supper
hour, when his family would gather around him and listen as he read his
newly-written stories of adventure. Actually his elders were almost
spellbound at their son’s accomplishments. Every story that the young
lad wrote was indeed good, his parents readily agreed, even though there
would be an exceptionally exciting one occasionally. Many are the times
that Mrs. Curwood would remark to her neighbors how her son, Jimmy, was
progressing in his chosen work. And even as quiet a person as his dear
old father was, he, too, broke down every now and then to praise what
his youngest child was doing.
“Fine, Jimmy boy, that’s fine!”
Throughout the preceding seven years Jim Curwood’s interest in writing
and literature had never abated. Now, at fifteen, the thrill and
enjoyment of his chosen life work was surging through his veins at a
much greater rate of speed. Now he had a typewriter on which to write
his stories instead of scrawling them on wrapping paper with a dull
pencil. Writing was a part of him. It would have been an impossibility
for him to have given it up, even if his very life had depended upon it.
For Jim Curwood was certain, even at that adolescent age, that Jim
Curwood would become a great writer.
Despite the fact that he had not mustered up enough courage to submit
any of his stories to editors, he knew that he must continue pounding a
typewriter or “die the death of a lost soul.”
Long before the Curwood family moved to the new home on John Street on
the bend of the river, young Jimmy used to collect all sorts of wrapping
paper and cut it into sheets of standard size in order to keep his work
in good shape. Then he would write his stories out in crude fashion and
once he had completed them would bind them together to make a compact
volume. As a matter of fact, Jim would often set his stories down on
anything that would make itself available. As a result of all those
prodigious hours of writing as a child there are literally thousands and
thousands of manuscripts filed away in neat stacks in the bottom of his
writing studio today.
The first story of Jim Curwood’s to appear in print was entitled “The
Fall of Shako,” which appeared in the Owosso paper, _The Argus_. The
unusual feature of this first appearance in print was that “The Fall of
Shako” took young Jim much longer to write than any of his other
stories.
The story was accepted by George Campbell, who at that time was the
editor and owner of _The Argus_, and he published it with Jim’s by-line
in bold type directly below the title. No payment was made for its
publication, but at that time Jim thought little, if at all, of
remuneration.
Living in Owosso then was a man named Dave Joplin who, for some unknown
and mysterious reason, disliked Jim’s father. With the publication of
the story with the by-line, JAMES CURWOOD, in bold type, he believed he
saw the opportunity he had been anxiously waiting for. He did not
realize that Mr. Curwood had a son by the same name, and was mistakenly
under the impression that the author was none other than the subject of
his dislike.
With calm deliberation Dave Joplin sat down with his pen flaming hot and
wrote harsh criticism of “The Fall of Shako.” This he sent directly to
the office of _The Argus_.
He termed the story an insult to the intelligence of the people of the
community and one composed of childish drivel.
Publisher George Campbell, sensing the possibilities of the joke,
published the “flaming letter of criticism” on the front page of _The
Argus_. Instantly it boomed back in the form of hundreds of letters and
postcards from angry and outraged citizens, who protested vehemently
against a man like Joplin attacking the young writer. Realizing his
mistake, Joplin promptly offered apologies, but the public was up in
arms over the silly, idiotic outburst of a full grown man.
Shortly thereafter Fred Janette heard of the incident and immediately
took to Jim’s rescue through the press itself. He wrote that Joplin had
shown himself to be a superlative ass and that his own egotistical
self-centered nature would be his downfall. At the same time the
citizens of Owosso took up the battle in favor of young Jim. By the
hundreds, letters of opinion flooded into the office of _The Argus_.
Because the editor of a small town newspaper had seen fit to publish a
short story by one of the town’s citizens, the miracle had occurred and
the young writer was beginning to receive publicity that he had not
expected in his wildest dreams to come to him so soon. His name and the
story concerning him was being printed on the front page of every large
newspaper throughout the country. It was more than state news now, for
it contained color and adventure that millions of people enjoy.
As days went by Jim began receiving congratulatory mail from all parts
of the country. All this, because of the publication of one apparently
mediocre story. But it was doing him more good than he realized at the
time. He was getting his name before the public as a writer and that in
itself was worth its weight in gold.
It was not long before the _Detroit Journal_ asked for a contribution.
Naturally it was quite a surprise for the growing boy and when this
happened he saw his chances for success suddenly rise to new heights.
“The Fall of Shako” was written November 2, 1894. It was published in
_The Owosso Argus_ on November 21 of that year.
The day before publication of that wonderful “first” of Jim Curwood’s,
he had been unknown and unsung. The next day everyone in Owosso, in
surrounding towns and in many states knew that James Oliver Curwood
lived on John Street and that he was a writer of no mean degree.
Although the _Detroit Journal_ was the first to ask for some of Jim’s
work, other papers in Detroit immediately followed suit as well as a few
papers elsewhere in the state. However, as the _Journal_ had been the
first to contact him, Jim submitted a group of his tales from which two
were quickly chosen. These were “Pontiac’s Last Blow” and “The Angel
from Heaven.” To his amazement he received no payment for these
contributions. Several days later he completed a new tale entitled, “The
Girl with the Rareripe Lips and the Raven Hair,” which he promptly
mailed to the _Journal_, and this was as promptly accepted. No payment
was made for that story either. So, with renewed energy and
determination, Jim took down his worn book of synonyms and dictionary
and began writing with more ambition than ever before.
After a long trip to New York, Fred Janette returned to Owosso to see
how his young charge was faring. He was quite surprised at the progress
the young writer was making. He was not only pleased, but deeply
contented. Yet, within him, Fred Janette felt that something was wrong
somewhere along the line, and he decided to delve more deeply into the
career of young Jim.
With careful deliberation he began reading the few published works of
the young author. Hardly had he finished reading the stack of
manuscripts than he immediately “yanked” the boy into his private study
once more. Here he explained fully just what Jim would have to do and
what he must not do. Fred Janette finally convinced Jim that he must
write hard and earnestly for a long time before he could hope to receive
payment for his work. It was during this session that he advised Jim to
try writing a juvenile serial for experience, if for nothing else.
All during the long heavy snows of the winter of 1893 Jim sat at his
desk on John Street, hammering away on his two twenty-thousand-word
serials. They were entitled “The Rebel Quintette,” and “Firelock of the
Range.” Today, forty-nine years later, those two manuscripts still
remain in the dungeon of Curwood Castle, for they were never published.
Of these two scripts, Curwood said in later life: “These pencil-scrawled
manuscripts, yellow with age, are among those I sometimes show to those
whom I sincerely desire to understand what is not good writing. Neither
was ever published.”
The remainder of that winter Jim kept everlastingly at his work,
pounding away feverishly on the rebuilt typewriter, with the
ever-present desire of having his stories published burning deep within
him. His native love for writing, aided by the unceasing encouragement
of his parents and Fred Janette, drove him constantly forward. For even
when the young boy would grow tired Janette and Jim’s mother saw to it
that the boy’s imagination was never led astray or left to linger. They
saw to it that his rapidly developing brain was continually at work.
It was during the last half of his sixteenth year that Jim Curwood,
young as he was, realized that he was on the right road to success.
However, he did not imagine just how long and how tiresome that road
would later prove itself to be.
Shortly after Jim had passed his seventeenth birthday, he began sending
out his stories with fond hopes of acceptance and remuneration. These
hopes were short-lived, for just as fast as he would mail the
manuscripts out others would be returned with a neat pink, blue or white
rejection slip attached.
Time and time again Jim had fits of despondency that all but drove both
him and his parents insane. He grew to hate the very sight of one of
those pink or white pieces of paper. Upon receiving a rejection slip he
vowed that he would never write another line. Always within twenty-four
hours he would be back at his typewriter, pounding away as usual.
Throughout all those lean, hard years of climbing slowly but surely
uphill in his claim to success and fame, Jim Curwood prayed to his God
for guidance and a brain that was capable of turning out a saleable
story. He, like so many other authors, knew that prayer alone would
never turn the trick. Everlasting persistence and staunch, bulldog
tenacity must be present if success is to come.
Jim did have the foresight, however, to realize that he must work
continually in order for him to achieve any minor degree of victory. And
work continually he did. Always from the crack of dawn to the wee, small
hours of the night he could have been found in his study, hard at work.
Curwood’s prayers during his teen age experiences were not so much that
he become wealthy or famous. Nor were they for the clamoring for
recognition. They were simply that people could get to read his stories.
Then he would be able to write yarns that people would want to read.
Publication and a ready audience were all that the young man craved.
During those times when fits of despondency would overcome him at the
sight of a rejection slip, there was but one thing Jim would do. He
would have his outburst of temper, take a long walk and then return to
his typewriter. Unlike most writers who receive, as a rule, not more
than two or three rejects in the day’s mail, Jim often got as many as
twelve to fifteen. Always they seemed to come in great avalanches. This
was all due to his prodigious output of words and stories.
When he would receive several of his tales back from the different
publishers, Jim would merely send them on their way to different ones.
He was not one to give up easily and consequently could not be whipped
in his determination to succeed. The postage bill at the Curwood home as
a rule varied from as little as $1.00 to as high as $3.00 and $4.00 a
month. But his parents concerned themselves little at the expense for
somehow they knew that the cause was a worthy one.
In due time the youthful author, who by this time had published over a
dozen different stories, came to believe just what the printed rejection
slip said—that rejection of a story did not necessarily mean that it was
not good, but that the story was unsuited to this or that particular
editor’s needs at the time.
At one time during Jim’s youthful and turbulent career, he received a
printed rejection slip from Bob Davis of _Munsey’s Magazine_, which had
the following scribbled on the bottom:
“Keep at it, kid, you’re bound to win!”
These eight words were to prove themselves priceless to Jim Curwood
during the time when everything he wrote seemed to appear so black and
foreboding. For it is seldom that an editor will take the time to write
words of encouragement to aspiring authors. However, it seemed that
_Munsey’s_ liked Jim’s work even though it did not quite reach its
standards. The kindness handed him by Bob Davis was something which the
boy never forgot.
Here and there among Jim’s many files of correspondence, private papers
and manuscripts are to be found many such words of encouragement from
various “big time” editors of that era. Brief notes from men who knew
that the young man was really a “coming big name.” It was these same
notes that kept the fire burning within Jim’s heart, and drove him on
when his ambition and energy lagged.
Probably one of the most amusing incidents in all of Jim’s hectic career
was the first and last time he was ever guilty of plagiarism.
It seems that in Jim’s still somewhat immature career, he wanted
publication so badly that he found a way of achieving it, though it was
not quite an honest or ethical one. He had come across a poem that he
enjoyed very much. A poem that was as old as the yellow paper upon which
it had been printed. It was entitled “A Fragment,” written by the
internationally famous Lord Byron. So, in his rather great haste to
reach the top rung of the ladder of literary success, Jim changed the
name of Byron’s poem to, “A Prayer,” and submitted it to a magazine as
his own work.
Then one day, weeks later, he received a check for fifty cents from the
magazine which had accepted the poem for early publication. This brought
high elation to the young man even though the real thrill was lacking.
Several days after publication of the poem in the “big magazine,” the
final blow to Jim’s elation came. For it seems that Fred Janette’s
mother recognized the bit of verse as that of Lord Byron’s famous “A
Fragment.”
“Never will I ever forget the expression that came over Mrs. Janette’s
face when she saw that which I had sold to be my own.” Jim remarked in
later life. But somehow she seemed to think it best not to say anything
to him about it at the time. However, a few weeks later she admitted to
him that she had recognized the poem to be Lord Byron’s. She was even
good enough to explain to the editor of the magazine which had published
it begging him not to say anything to Jim. She believed that if the
magazine’s editor had accused Jim of plagiarism, a truly great career
might have been shattered, hardly before it had actually begun to get a
good start.
Having derived no decidedly great thrill from what he had done, it
dawned on Jim that not only had he cheated himself, but had equally
cheated his parents and his friends. For Mr. and Mrs. Curwood firmly
believed that the published verse had actually been their son’s.