crime. It grieved him to think that he had published something which had
not been his own and that he had been paid for it. However, he shortly
let the matter drop from his mind after vowing never to repeat the act,
no matter how badly he wanted publication. James Oliver Curwood never
committed plagiarism again.
In those early struggling days for James Oliver Curwood, there were such
magazines on the market as _The Wayside Tales_, _The Four O’Clock_, _The
White Elephant_, _The Black Cat_. To these, and to many others, Jim
offered his writings. Unfortunately, they did not see fit to publish
young James O. Curwood. Regardless of the rejections he usually got, he
always kept _Munsey’s Magazine_ on his list, for it had offered more
encouragement and rays of hope than all the other magazines combined.
Then success, in a minor sort of way, came to young Curwood. He received
a notice of acceptance from the _Gray Goose_ magazine and $5.00 in
payment.
If the neighbors had not known that a young writer lived nearby, there
is little doubt but that they would have believed a raving lunatic had
invaded the little house on John Street. For at sight of the check, Jim
jumped and ran about the house, shouting at the top of his voice, as he
waved the green piece of paper wildly above his head. And he had good
reason for doing so. “Across the Range” was his first paid-for story.
Heretofore he had had several of his stories published, but had never
received any compensation for them. Now the “ice had been broken,” and
he was on the road to success.
“If the check had been for five-thousand dollars the thrill would not
have been greater,” said Jim at the time. For here was the result of ten
years of mental anguish and strain; ten years of impatient, but hopeful
waiting. Here was what he had been striving for. It hardly seemed true,
yet there before his eyes and in his hands was the check.
For many days after this wonderful happening Jim was held in the throes
of excitement, the likes of which he had never known before in all his
life. At last he could call himself a professional writer. The beacons
of happiness and earnestness shone bright in the teen-aged youth’s head,
for at last his dream was coming true.
Feeling that he had at last struck the right chord Jim wrote hot,
scorching letters to all the editors who had previously rejected his
stories. Many of them replied in due time by saying, in effect, “we have
never heard of the _Gray Goose_ before.”
It was not long before young Jim began to believe many things about
himself that as yet were not exactly true. He even felt himself to be on
an equal status with his idol, Fred Janette. He also believed that now
that fame and glory had taken a quick look at him, he should resume his
normal life and turn out still more yarns. Stories which would sell
many, many copies of the magazines in which they would appear. Stories
that would hold their readers spellbound from beginning to end. Stories
that would provide hope, inspiration and ambition to those who might
have grown weary of the struggle. He wanted to write so that in his
works there would be a message for all.
For a long time Jim had wanted a bicycle of his own. He had borrowed his
friends’ bikes many times, but neither they nor he approved so very much
of this policy. He had been saving his money in the hope of accumulating
enough to purchase one for himself, but he began to realize that it
would take a long, long time for him to save up the fabulous sum that a
new bicycle would cost.
One day early in June of 1896, young Jim Curwood, now past seventeen
years of age, had one of the most pleasant surprises of his life. Mr.
Curwood bought his growing young son a bicycle all his own on which Jim
was free to ride whenever and wherever he chose.
It was a grand and glorious thrill for the boy. It gave him a feeling of
satisfaction and immense pride. No longer would he have to borrow a
bicycle. Now he had his own, and it was the newest and best bicycle in
all of Owosso.
On the very day that Jim became the proud owner of the new bicycle he
began planning for a long trip. He decided, after some reflection, to
travel southward.
Fortunately enough, Jim’s parents had no serious objections to his
plans, so, upon completing his itinerary, he made ready to start on his
travels early the following morning. His first stop would be at his
cousin’s, Bert Van Ostran, seventeen miles away. Father Curwood reached
down into his pocket and extracted fifty cents which he gave to his
youngest boy, and then Mrs. Curwood packed him a good lunch.
After the discussion of the trip had come to an end the family prepared
for bed. Jim urged his parents not to see him off in the morning, for he
expected to be on his way at the first crack of dawn. The elder Curwoods
doubted very strongly, however, that he would even be out of bed by
dawn, let alone being well on his way peddling a bicycle. For to reach
cousin Bert’s home, Jim would have to peddle over seventeen miles of the
worst gravel roads. So they made no objections, slyly believing that the
whole trip would come to naught.
But Mr. and Mrs. Curwood did not realize to what extent the adventure
blood was surging through their son’s veins. They did not realize the
yearning that Jim held in his youthful heart for the open skies where
the stars shone down in glittering millions. They did not know of the
love their son bore in his heart for the winding, steep trails, the
blazing campfires or the countless spots along the streams where one
could lie and dream upon the green turf while one’s fish pole would
dangle idly in the cool green depths. No, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood did not
stop to think of this. Perhaps it is better they had not known, for it
might have resulted in a great and most unwelcome change in Jim Curwood.
A change that might have eliminated him from the ranks of the world’s
greatest adventure writers.
By the first gleams of breaking dawn as the sun awakened to start a new
day, Jim Curwood was well on his way to his cousin’s home seventeen
miles distant. One may only guess at the surprise that his parents must
have experienced when they discovered that the boy was gone.
Jim pedaled his heart out and reached Bert’s home the same afternoon.
Hardly had he arrived than he was explaining his scheme to cousin Bert.
Up until this time Jim had not spoken to anyone concerning the plan that
had been hatching in his brain. From all indications it was merely to
have been a short bike trip of seventeen miles and no further. Bert was
in complete agreement, and that night the boys sat in Bert’s room and
drew up their secret plans long after their elders had turned in for the
night—plans that would open up new roads of adventure for them.
The following morning the boys were up early, and by the time the sun
rose they were on their way, their bike racks loaded and their luggage
tight.
As any nature lover, any adventurer or any traveler knows, there is no
holding back, no barring of the path when one hears the call to nature
and wildlife. There is no one to bar your path and say that you cannot
go here and you cannot go there. You are free to go where you please and
when you please. The passport to adventure is the love of nature.
Throughout the wanderings of the two comrades they managed to live off
the land, as wanderers do. Often, being extremely fortunate, they would
receive handouts consisting of fresh eggs, chicken, milk and vegetables
which they consumed to their hearts’ content. But they were not without
their periods of hard luck, too, for on occasions they had to run for
dear life before the rage of farmers who did not particularly relish
their trespassings. But all of this was to be expected, for they had
chosen to live the life of adventurers and live it they did to their
utter joy and sheer happiness.
It was about the middle of July that Jim and Bert decided to swing
around and see as much territory as possible in the remaining time left
them. Immediately they made for Ohio, into eastern Indiana, then back
into Ohio and on down into Kentucky.
This being the first real trip that Jim Curwood had made thus far in his
life, he felt an immense and almost inexpressible thrill when his cousin
and he crossed the wide and swift Ohio river enroute to the state of
Kentucky. He had never before been this far south and he enjoyed it so
much that they spent several days in the “Blue Grass” state. They never
remained in any other spot for more than half a day at a time.
They pedaled up long, winding trails and hills where on both sides of
them were deep chasms and high cliffs, overlooking wide fertile valleys.
They travelled over many miles of Kentucky’s roads and by-ways,
thrilling to every mile, every stone, every stream. Unexpectedly,
through the kindness of an unknown sportswoman, they were given an
opportunity to ride on a large steamboat which had stopped at the docks
of the Ohio river. So, with their bicycles safely on board, Jim and Bert
stood along the rail with their hostess as the shrill whistles blew. For
several days and nights they had three square meals daily in truly
luxurious style and they slept like kings in soft and downy beds. The
dream, real as it was, ended when the boat docked at Louisville, and the
two boys disembarked to make their plans for pedalling back to their
respective homes.
Schooldays soon arrived for Jim Curwood and into the long, wide halls of
Central School he strode once more. This time he was not the meek and
timid beginner as of old, but one who had the air of an adventurer about
him. He had also grown a great deal during the summer, his skin was
tanned. His natural coal-black, straight hair was almost bleached white
by the hot summer sun.
Despite the fact that he was glad to be back in school, soon the urge
for the great outdoors and what they had to offer began to beckon to him
stronger than before. So, outside of school hours (and those days when
he would miss school altogether), his time was divided between his river
and his bedroom study.
Night after night Jim constantly heard his river rushing past his
upstairs window on into the wilds. Soon he found that he could not
withstand the urge longer ... nature was beckoning. So he wrote a long,
heart-filled letter to his old pal Skinny, imploring him to come and
join him, and together they would go on one grand and glorious
adventure. Many anxious days he waited until those days had developed
into weeks, and still no reply came from Skinny down in Ohio. This
silence puzzled Jim greatly. Surely Skinny had received his letter or
else it would have been returned to him long before now.
Jim waited three or four days more before giving up all hopes of hearing
from Skinny.
One day, when the spring rains had stopped and the flowers had begun to
burst open in a glorious outbreaking of wonderful springtime, Jim
Curwood brought home all his books and announced that school was of such
minor importance to him, as compared to the material he must gather for
a story for the editor of _Golden Days Magazine_, that he must at once
dismiss all thoughts of study and head into the Big Marsh. As far as Jim
Curwood was concerned now school was so much water over the dam and
something which had done him little or no good whatsoever.
The urge for adventure was much more stronger than the urge to attend
school, despite the fact that he had returned to Owosso from Ohio
principally to go to school. But he had pondered over the situation
seriously for many weeks and his mind was made up. He was heading north
and nothing was going to stop him. He wanted that country so feverishly
and wanted to write about it so badly that he could not and would not
suppress himself further.
Fortunately enough, school in those days was a small part of one’s life.
So Mother and Father Curwood did not raise much protest against their
son’s wishes, even though they had hoped and prayed that he would some
day go through college. Consequently Jim had very little trouble in
gaining the necessary permission, although the necessity of gathering
material for the editor of _Golden Days_ was a fabrication. The editor
of that magazine had never even heard of Jim Curwood....
Several days later Jim started out on his lone venture, still wondering
why Skinny had never answered his letter. He was starting out into the
Big Marsh Country and the “Land of the Bad” alone. Carrying his gun in
one hand and his dunnage in the other, his tramping was to be a solitary
one. In those days there were no automobiles and the country was low and
flat. There was nothing but timberland, swamps, lakes, creatures of the
wilds and the rushing white waters of the rivers.
As Jim began hiking on the first day of his trip, the sun was just
beginning to peep through the trees. At the end of that day the sun was
sinking behind the western horizon in a glorious burst of color. He had
made something like thirty miles and he was to spend his first night out
in one of the cabins of one of his swamp Indian friends and feast upon
the usual meal of fried muskrat.
By sunup the following morning Jim Curwood was in the little town of St.
Charles, and it was here that he rented a leaky boat.
Jim was on his way down the Bad long before most people are ready to sit
down to their morning meal.
A half mile or so down the river from St. Charles, Jim entered a region
supremely and gloriously wild. It was strangely and unusually quiet; and
along this particular point the Bad river was very deep and wide, and
all but currentless. Bordered on both sides by many types of trees:
spruce, willows, jackpine, maple and beech that seemed to be bending
their heads down to the water’s edge, and long entwining vines that
looked as if they were just waiting to fasten their deathlike grips
about Jim’s young neck. It was all mysterious and terrifying, but Jim
loved it all. He loved and almost worshipped every single thing
regardless of how wild and spooky it looked.
[Illustration: _J.C. WEBER_]
The farther he pushed along, the more he began to realize that he was
well within the swamp territory and uncut timberlands, a place so
primeval and mysterious that it fairly rang with the sound of adventure.
It was deathly still and quiet.
As Jim dipped his oars silently and deeply into the black waters he
could not help but hear the occasional sounds of birds and wildlife
about him. Yet, he was not at the place he wanted to be, the region
where game was abundant. But it was part of what he was seeking. He
marveled at the sounds and the scenery and was thrilled as never before.
Jim Curwood took in everything with all the awe and wonderment of youth.
But soon he knew that he must stop admiring the scenery and make for his
destination before nightfall caught up with him. His destination was a
place where the swiftly flowing waters of the flooded Shiawassee joined
those of the slow, currentless Bad. It was there that he planned to
spend the night. Jim dug his oars deeper into the cold, black, silent
waters of the mysterious Bad river.
As young Jim rowed along many thoughts entered his mind. He had always
thought of the Bad river as an outlaw, stealing away to some dark,
secret, quiet place of seclusion. In some places the longest fish poles
cannot touch bottom, so deep and abysmal is it. As Jim feared it, so he
loved it.
Around four o’clock in the afternoon, as the sun was beginning to set
and the shadows began to drop much deeper within the thick wilderness,
Jim reached the old logging cabin that he had been heading for. Upon his
arrival there, he was greatly perturbed to find that only about a half
an acre was above the flood waters. He landed his boat on the dry land
and went ashore.
The next morning, long before the sun had made its appearance, he was
well on his way. Fortunately enough for him, he did not have to go as
far as he had expected, for he ran into his old friend, “Muskrat” Joe,
with whom he spent that day and night.
That night Jim Curwood spent one of the merriest and most enjoyable
suppers of his life as he sat by the campfire with one of the true
wilderness wanderers. They laughed, and joked and told tall stories. The
two spent the next five glorious days together, after which the faithful
Joe invited Jim Curwood to come to his home and stay a while with him.
For four unforgettable weeks James Oliver Curwood lived the life of a
swamp Indian, doing everything, and eating the same things that swamp
Indians do and eat. He paddled an old dug-out canoe that had been carved
from the trunk of a huge tree and ate what food the Indian offered him.
Many of the dishes that the mysterious and picturesque “Muskrat” Joe
cooked, most men would turn from in horror. This was not the case with
Jim, however, for he ate everything. He felt that what Joe ate was good
enough for him.
Perhaps the amazing part of this wilderness living with Joe was that the
Indian’s home was wonderfully clean. The abode was located both on and
off the river. A long, winding path covered by marsh grass led back to
the actual home, if one chose to call it a home. Then, too, it could
hardly be termed a cabin or shack, for it was built of tree boughs and
limbs, plastered together with swamp mud and thatched over with tall,
tough marsh grass. This kept the hot air out in the summer and the cold
winds out in the winter.
The place itself was surrounded by an air of mystery and seclusion. It
was in this wilderness outpost that Jim Curwood turned out “The Mystery
Man of Kim’s Bayou.” It was here, also, that he learned more of the real
heart and soul of nature, as well as the new doors opened for him in his
great worship and search for nature in all of her abundance and glory.
Upon his unexpected though welcome return to Owosso, Jim told many
strange and weird tales about the wilds that he had surrounded himself
with during the past month or so. Upon being pressed about the material
he supposedly was gathering for the editor of _Golden Days Magazine_,
Jim merely said that he was working on it and that it would be ready in
a few days.
One day shortly after his return to Owosso, Jim made the acquaintance of
another young man whose name was Bill, through whose association Jim
became involved in another of his boyish pranks. This time, however, the
prank developed into a scheme of downright dishonesty.
Somehow or other, the two boys decided to concoct a liquid which they
called “The Infallible Blood Purifier.” Home-made and brewed without any
actual scientific preparation or knowledge, this “stuff” was not only
falsely-named but dangerous to drink, as they found out in due time.
Equipped with many bottles of their “Purifier,” the boys entrained on a
barnstorming tour of the countryside, by horse-and-buggy, screaming
their wares in the market-places of almost every city and village they
came to. Most of their customers were farmers, and business was
extremely good until, one by one, the farmers became ill. Complaints
came thick and fast and the citizenry were up in arms against the boys.
It was not long before Jim and Bill were being hunted from town to town
by the sheriff, and it was only through sheer good fortune that they
managed to elude the law.
It was while they were fleeing that Jim somehow recognized familiar
territory and he suddenly realized that they had managed to come to his
old farm in Ohio, where he had spent such glorious days with dear
friends. The farm was now vacant and dreary, but it held memories for
Jim that he would never forget. Inquiring as to his pal, Skinny, and his
“Whistling” Jeanne, he found, to his sadness, that his pal had died and
the girl had married and moved elsewhere.
So it was with a heavy heart that Jim returned to Owosso to take up once
again where he had left off. He had had his fling, was much wiser in the
ways of the world and was now ready to plunge seriously and finally into
his life’s work.
CHAPTER FIVE
COLLEGE DAYS
When Jim Curwood at last returned from his wanderings on the open roads
and along the trails of adventure, he decided that he must have more
schooling if he would attain the heights in literature that he so
desired.
Jim was determined and he set to the task that he had outlined for
himself. The first to suggest that he should go to college and study was
Mrs. Janette. But similar advice came from his parents, Fred Janette and
most of his friends. Realizing that this would take a great sum of money
Jim began to seriously consider the possibilities.
Where would he ever get the necessary funds for even a year at Ann
Arbor’s University of Michigan? Where, indeed, would he get the money
for the remaining three years which were required for a degree?
For many weeks Jim thought about his problem. At last he reached the
decision that he would earn just enough to take care of himself for the
first year and let the other three years take care of themselves. He had
not as yet completed his high school course at Central School, and the
job of doing so was also of prime consideration, since a diploma was an
essential requirement to entering a university.
Even as the century neared its end, Central School remained a combined
grade and high school where students from six and seven mingled with
boys and girls of seventeen and eighteen years of age. It was a
beautiful school surrounded by trees and sat in the center of a large
common wherein lay a wonderful playground. Despite the fact that it was
a combined school of all grades it had everything to offer the children
of that day. It remains very much the same today as it was almost fifty
years ago.
Without choice Jim set to work doing anything in the line of odd-jobs.
He beat carpets, mowed lawns and yards and raked leaves in the fall
months. He also shoveled snow from neighbors’ walks and porches during
the long, cold wintry months. He even scraped mortar from bricks at an
old building that was being destroyed. Also, during the winter, he ran
innumerable traplines and from these he managed to save quite a few
dollars. He realized to the utmost that all of this was work, but since
it was for “the cause” he did not mind. For Jim thoroughly enjoyed his
trapping in the blustery winds of the cold, northern winters, and his
shoveling of snow from sidewalks and porches. He enjoyed the scraping of
mortar from bricks, the mowing of yards and the beating of carpets, for
through this work he was coming nearer and nearer to his goal.
With the arrival of early fall, the time came when cord wood would have
to be put up, and here again Jim proved himself efficient. Cord after
cord of wood he cut up for neighbors and friends. For each cord he
received ample payment. Then, when he learned that there was a shortage
of firemen, Jim promptly signed up as a volunteer. All these jobs Jim
picked up over a period of one year.
In early September of the fall of 1897 Jim went back to Central School,
and it was not long before the faculty as well as his fellow students
learned of his desire and determination to enter college, a desire which
they regarded as being absurd and futile.
All this, however, only made Jim dig in all the harder and made him
fight more gallantly against the odds that were pitting themselves
against him. For the young man was absolutely determined to show them
all up now. He felt that by actually attaining that for which he was
striving, he would be showing them all just how small and insignificant
they really were.
Adding injury to insult there came a blow to Jim’s dignity and pride
that hurt and touched him deeply. For Professor Austin of Central School
once asked him:
“How are you going to get into college, James, without a diploma—break
in with a set of burglar’s tools?”
Throughout all those hectic schooldays Jim was constantly being urged by
a great many people to give up his childish passion for writing, and
turn to something that would prove itself more profitable and worthwhile
in years to come. Since Jim was rapidly becoming quite an expert with a
rifle, he was told that there was an excellent field in rifle matches
which would bring him good money. Likewise the prospect of bagging big
game was proposed as a means of earning considerable money. Fortunately
for Jim none of these ideas appealed to him.