WORK IN THE LUMBER TOWNS.
In the camps the missionary is largely a preacher; in the lumber
towns the work he must do is cut to no design or pattern. One might
call it pastoral work, and in a free use of the term it is, but I
know of no pastor who is doing work of this nature unless it be the
men in the city missions. It is work which consists largely of the
unexpected--changing a chance circumstance into Christian activity.
The villages and towns have followed the railways, bringing in the many
alluring vices of civilization. Through the approaches of vice the
campmen have been demoralized, their lives made almost worthless, and
their characters seared with the brand of iniquity. The contractors
find it a task to obtain suitable men for their crews, for the
saloon and its concomitant evils have made many of the lumberjacks
irresponsible and incapable. The men will leave their work on the
least provocation to spend a few days in debauchery. Often a contractor
finds himself, in the parlance of the camps, "with one crew coming to
camp, another working, and another leaving camp." This means loss on
the part of the men and inability on the part of the contractor to
deliver his contract of logs. As one contractor expressed it: "The
jacks work until their hides begin to crack, then follow their tongues
to the nearest irrigation plant, tank up until the stake is blown, then
mosey to a camp to dry out again." The village and town saloons are
largely the cause of this. The rum shops, and worse, are ever on the
lookout for the boys, and he who escapes the clutches of the godless
crowd must indeed be immune to temptation.
Mr. Higgins was in a hotel in Tenstrike, Minnesota, when a lumberjack
who had finished his winter's work came into the house to wait for the
train going south. Immediately the saloon men and gamblers were after
him but he resisted and left the village with his check uncashed. The
gamblers learned that he was going to Bemidji so they wired to the
gamblers of that place to meet him. When the woodsman left the train
he was hailed by a waiting "toot." The "toot" was genial, gracious,
sympathetic, and to cement the friendship, the one must treat and
the other do likewise. While they drank the attendant at the wheel
made music with the roulette ball and soon in response to the siren's
singing the lumberjack was seated at the wheel where he lost in a few
hours the wages it had taken him months to earn. When he left the place
he was drunken, penniless, forsaken.
The writer and Frank Higgins were going through a gambling den in one
of the northern towns. At the roulette wheel sat a young traveling
man playing his chips with liberal hand. Merrily the ivory rattled
in the groove and settled in the space. Now he lost, now he won. Joy
or anguish was on his face as he played to increase his winnings or
retrieve his losses. It was interesting to watch the play of the man's
passions as expressed in his countenance. Hour after hour the game
dragged on. We visited other resorts of the lumberjack and returned
at midnight, but the traveling man was still at the wheel. Hope still
lingered, but from the haggard, drawn expression of his face we
could tell that he had lost heavily. It was 1:30 A. M., when the game
ended and the man was without a cent. Mr. Higgins spoke to him in the
lobby of the hotel. Despair was depicted on the man's face. Worn with
anxiety, he staggered like one under the power of liquor, although not
a drop had passed his lips, and the wild look of his eyes suggested the
haunted mien of one who might attempt his own life.
When Mr. Higgins spoke to him, he replied:
"I am an embezzler tonight. I have spent all my own money and all
the money with which my employer had trusted me. I deserve the
penitentiary."
Continuing, he told us his story. He was trained to a profession
but the confinement of his vocation brought on ill health and he
had begun to travel for a well known firm. He was the only child of
respectable parents, and in his present wretchedness he thought of the
disappointment and grief coming to these aged ones as a result of his
folly. I could not but admire the handsome fellow, foolish though he
was, for his apparent love for his home.
"I have disgraced them," he said in anguish, "and when they hear of my
dishonesty it will kill them."
He went to the desk and wrote a letter to the firm telling them of his
fall and how he had lost their money in gambling. When he was about to
mail the letter Mr. Higgins went to him again and tried to induce him
to go to bed.
"No," he said, "I could not sleep, and if I could, I have no money to
pay for a room. I have been dishonest enough already without wronging
the proprietor."
"Clerk, give him a room and charge it to me," said Mr. Higgins, taking
the matter into his own hands. "Now, brother, you go to bed and stay
there until I call you, and we'll see what we can do. Don't mail that
letter. Perhaps it won't be necessary in the morning."
He went to breakfast with us. After the meal the missionary went out to
interview the town and county officials. The result of the conference
was that the gambler turned over to the traveling man the amount of
money embezzled and took his note for the same. The traveling man
pledged his word never to gamble again and went on his way sadder, and
we hope wiser, because of the experience.
The same night on which the above incident occurred, we entered a
palatial saloon and gambling place and found but few men present, for
it was a season when most of the men were in camp after spending the
Christmas holidays in town. We entered into conversation with the
proprietor of the place.
"Things are pretty quiet," said Mr. Higgins, "I suppose you are not
making expenses just now?"
"Hardly," answered the proprietor, "but I needn't worry, it will come
in later." He nodded to the camps west of town, "All the boys are
working."
This is the attitude of these keepers. They consider the earnings of
the lumberjack as their legitimate spoil and part of their yearly
income.
The wife of one of the saloon proprietors, overhearing a remark
concerning her jewels and apparel, said:
"I can afford to wear rich clothing. My husband has about a thousand
men working for him in the woods." The meaning was obvious: that these
men would spend their earnings in the saloon, at the gaming table, and
in the retreats connected with her husband's establishment.
The brazen effrontery of those engaged in this business is
indescribable. The flesh and blood of men is to be lowered to the level
of the brutes, appetites of lust are to be satisfied, passions of evil
are to be encouraged, and no shade of shame is to be found on the
countenances of this depraving element. Where money is to be had the
souls of men are not to be considered. Human misery is nothing. There
is money in the damning business--then damn the soul and get the money
is the policy.
An extensive self-satisfaction, a mantle of self-righteousness, clothes
the men of this vocation.
"Bad? Of course it's a bad business," said one, "but if we don't sell
the stuff some one else will. As long as there are fools to buy it we
intend to supply them. It's their lookout, not ours."
"But don't you think you are morally responsible for tempting men?" I
asked.
"All a man is responsible for is being honest," he replied. "I have
been honest in all I have done. No man was ever robbed in my place,
and the games are straight. I may go to hell when I am through here,
but my job will be shoveling coal to make it hotter for the hypocrites
who profess to be honest and then steal when they get the chance."
They talked freely of their business and one gambler had the courage to
make this assertion:
"There isn't a more honest set of men in the country than the
professional gamblers. They are all right, but the associations are
bad."
The above may be a description of some gamblers, but not of all, for
it is well known that the games are often crooked and by mechanical
devices are made a sure thing for the house.
In one of the range towns a cruiser entered a gambler's place with
several thousand dollars in his possession. It was not long before he
had lost all. Satisfying himself that the game was not "on the square,"
he drew his gun and shot up both the gambler and the wheel, took his
money from the till and left the place. The gambler was maimed for life.
The saloons and gambling places are palatial and attractive. They
are fitted with the best the town affords, resplendent with glitter
and flash of lights, showy woodwork and decorated walls. Courtesy
and attention await the victims, for an army of men is ready to
respond to any desire the lumberjacks may express, no matter how low.
Everything is designed to allure. No wonder the men who have known
only the discomforts of the camps, with their hard, grinding labor and
unaesthetic surroundings, are easily caught in the net that is spread
at their feet.
Because of this lawless element so common in the lumber towns, and the
unrestrained ways in which almost all of the towns are run, the "open"
policy being the common one, there is work for the camp missionary to
do. The Rev. Frank Higgins goes into the saloons to find the stray
sheep. His errands of mercy have led him into hundreds of dram shops
and gambling places.
The writer was with him in one of the towns and the following incidents
are only a part of that day's work of helpfulness:
Having heard from a contractor that one of the boys had been reduced to
helplessness through drink, and more than drink, Mr. Higgins started
for the saloons and continued his search through many groggeries until
at last he found the man. The poor drunken wretch was lying on the
floor behind the stove, and the missionary put his strong arms around
the besotted being and almost carried him to a lodging place where his
needs were supplied.
After that we visited the hospital to call on the camp boys. There he
heard of a lumberjack who had been dismissed from the hospital that
morning. The man was able to be around but too weak to work, and was
penniless. So the second search began and the man was located in the
lobby of a cheap hotel. Mr. Higgins went to the proprietor, guaranteed
him against loss, and went on his way leaving the lumberjack free from
care while regaining his strength. The man had been converted in the
camps that winter, but so miserable had been his morals that no one
trusted him. That was two years ago; today he is a respected Christian
worker.
Later came the assisting of another helpless lumberjack and the day
closed with the incident of the gambling traveling man, described in
this chapter.
It is helpfulness that counts. On the banks of the Galilean lake our
Master, who never wearied of doing good, met his disciple Peter and
said unto him, "Simon, lovest thou me?"
Peter replied to the question, "Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love
thee." Then the divine lips opened and gave to Peter and to us the end
and aim of the Christian's relation to man--"Feed my sheep." If we love
our Master, Christian activity in the form of assisting men should be
an ever-present result.
In instances like the following the flesh may rebel, but the command
still remains:
For three weeks Mike had been on a drunken spree; during the days and
nights of debauchery he had not changed his clothes or even washed his
hands. This was his condition when Mr. Higgins found him senseless
with drink in the "snake room." The missionary took him to a lodging
house and bathed the body from which the cleansing water had so long
been absent. The man's feet were so swollen that the heavy boots were
removed with difficulty and when the socks were taken off the skin came
with them. It was no wonder that the effluvium drove the minister
from the room. It was a hard task, against which the flesh rebelled,
but the Master gave the command, "Feed my sheep," and here was one who
needed attention. Tenderly the Sky Pilot watched over the poor fellow,
supplying his needs until a few days later he was able to return to the
camp. The man thus helped had been educated for the Catholic priesthood
and drink had ruined him.
Actions such as these may not result in the great end of conversion,
but they do result in aiding the cause of Christ, for the men see in
the missionary the spirit of the helpful Master.
Many times during the period of Mr. Higgins' residence at Bemidji, Mrs.
Higgins was awakened at night by some poor, spent lumberjack who came
to the Sky Pilot's home to ask for assistance. Although she was alone,
Mr. Higgins being in the camps, she would arise and feed the hungry man
and then direct him to some place where he could spend the night.
"Who is that man?" asked a stranger who had been watching Mr. Higgins
as he went among the lumberjacks in the village street.
[Illustration: LOADING FROM A LAKE]
"That's the Lumberjack Sky Pilot, a fellow who never turned a
lumberjack down," said the woodsman, and added, "His job is keeping us
out of hell." It was crudely expressed, but it represents the sentiment
of the boys; with them Christianity must act as well as speak.
When a lumberjack is in trouble with the police he is quite sure to
send for Mr. Higgins if the Sky Pilot happens to be in the village. Mr.
Higgins is well known in these communities and the officials respect
him for the interest he shows in his wayward flock. Many a poor fellow,
who awakens from a drunken sleep to find himself in the lockup, wonders
if the Sky Pilot is near. The missionary has often pleaded for a light
sentence or asked for the case to be annulled.
On one occasion he had been called to the justice court to plead for a
woodsman who was charged with being drunk and disorderly. The preacher
asked the justice to make the sentence as light as possible and to
allow the man to go after giving him a reprimand. The judge was an old
friend of the missionary, and at the time of the trial could hardly be
called sober. Often he would appear in his office the worse for liquor
and dispense justice to the petty offenders. In spite of his failing,
the justice had a shrewd sense of right and a great respect for the
dignity of his office.
After hearing the plea that Mr. Higgins made for the lumberjack the
judge decided to reprimand the man and dismiss the case. He tried to
sober himself that the dignity of the law might not suffer through the
weakness of the dispenser. He knew that the office called for erect
deportment, so the bench straightened his figure and impressively began
the reprimand:
"W-whiskey is-s a bad thing. It ma-akes a f-fool of an h-honest man and
a d-d--n f-fool of a f-fool. It s-shouldn't be used by l-lumberjacks;
t-they belong to the l-last c-class already. It ma-akes a f-fool of
every man t-that touches it. If you don't believe it, j-just l-look at
the j-judge who has the p-power of sentencing you. See w-what w-whiskey
has done for him. B-because of my f-friend Higgins I'll let y-you
off this t-time, but remember the j-judge and let w-whiskey alone.
Dis-dismissed."
The example was a good one. Even Solomon could not have chosen a more
timely illustration, for the judge vividly set forth in his own person
what whiskey could do for a man, and the woodsman appreciated the force
of the advice. Taking the missionary with him, the lumberjack went
to the hotel and drew off his shoes. From the toes of the shoes he
extracted a roll of bills containing one hundred and fifty dollars.
"If those blood suckers, who made me drunk, had known I had this, they
would have robbed me of it the same as they did of the rest and I
wouldn't have a cent now. Well, Pilot, I'm through with it. By God's
help, this is the last."
The man went to North Dakota and settled on a farm. Today he is the
proud owner of three hundred and twenty acres, and is prospering.
The writer is only trying to pen a brief picture of the field as it
presents itself to the missionary. No man can give a full description
of the wide privilege that is open to the minister in these places
where the lumberjacks congregate. He is required to perform varying
duties whether they are related to the minister's calling or not.
Often, in the regular ministrations, elements are introduced that
suggest the burlesque rather than the solemn services common to the
ministry, as the following incident will illustrate:
It was the last day of the drive and the riverpigs were coming into
town after their labors on the lakes and rivers. The town was reaping
its harvest--at least the saloons and other evils were. As the Rev.
Frank E. Higgins walked the street, he was approached by a drunken
riverpig.
"Say, Pilot," he began, "one of our crew fell off a log, pulled the
hole in after him and is at the coffin shop ready for the boneyard. We
uns want him planted like a decent Christian; he wa'n't no squaw man or
Indian. See to the trimmings, will you? Do the job up right if you have
to buy out every wannigan in town. Are you on, Pilot? When you're ready
call for us at Blank's saloon, for we want to go with you to Jim's
bunking place."
The driver left him and entered Blank's saloon to report progress to
the boys and the minister proceeded to the undertaker's establishment
to make the necessary arrangements for the funeral. He ordered a plain
pine coffin, and after procuring a dray for a hearse, drove up to
Blank's saloon for the boys.
Out on the sidewalk the riverpigs came noisily, but when they saw the
dray with its burden they stopped abruptly.
"It won't go, Pilot," said the one who had made the arrangements. "This
is no jack-pine farmer's funeral; we're no cheap skates. This camp's
got money and intends to blow it. See? Give us a run for our money."
Then another rum-soaked riverpig spoke up: "If this was a tin-horn
gambler or a bloated saloon-keeper they'd have a hearse and a brass
band. Jim's only a riverpig, but he's got to be planted with the frills
just the same."
"Get a decent box and hearse and call again, Pilot," they shouted as
they backed into the saloon to "keep their hides from cracking."
The funeral procession had a more imposing appearance when it drew
up a second time at Blank's saloon. A hearse led the procession and
six carriages completed the cortege. By this time the mourners were
in a state of intoxication, in which feelings of the sublime and the
ridiculous blend without effort.
"This is the way to do it," cried one of the riverpigs as he viewed the
hearse and carriages. "Wouldn't Jim be tickled to death if he saw this
show and knew that he was the whole blank thing?"
"Say, Pilot," said one whom Mr. Higgins was helping into a carriage,
"when we meet Jim later he'll say, 'I'm proud of the way you fellows
rid me out of town.'"
"Pretty near two months' wages gone for a box, but what's expense when
we're planting Jim," weepingly commented his bunkmate. "He'd 'a done as
much for me if I'd 'a give him a show. It's his last blow out anyway."
All the way to the cemetery the mourners talked in the above strain,
constantly expressing their satisfaction over the "frills" of the
obsequies and the "agony" they were showing for Jim. There was an
undertone of complaint because poor drowned Jim did not come forward
and personally thank them for the honor they had conferred.
Around the grave the riverpigs staggered and it looked as if more than
Jim were going to occupy the grave, for with difficulty they were kept
from tumbling in on the corpse. The minister spoke a few words on the
uncertainty of life and the need of preparation for eternity, but his
brief address was interrupted by the weeping of the drunken attendants
and their interjected praises of the dead.
"Speak a good word for Jim, Pilot," said a weeping poleman. "Tell the
Lord he could ride a log as well as the best of us."
"Get him through if you can; he wasn't so bad," was the parenthesis of
a French-Canadian.
"Good bye, Jim. Our turn's comin'."
The last words were said, the benediction pronounced, and the Sky Pilot
turned to leave the cemetery.
"Hold on, there," cried the foreman to the minister. "This is no pauper
you buried, but a man whose friends ain't broke."
Taking off his hat, he turned to the crew. "Shell out, you blank sons
of the nameless. Jim's been planted O. K., now pay the Sky Pilot for
the words he shed over his bones. This is no poor farm job."
The boys shelled out eight dollars and sixty cents for the preacher's
services.
The lumberjacks, the homesteaders, the saloon men and the prostitutes
claim the missionary as their spiritual friend. It is on him they
call when sickness enters their places of abode, and his response is
willing and natural. He, as the servant of Christ, is the messenger to
the poor and outcast; conditions of life are not considered.
One night, when the Pilot was in a brothel praying with a woman who was
passing through the dark waters, the girls of the house crowded around
to listen to the prayers and see the end. One of the girls invited him
to a private conversation and in it told him the story of her life and
the nearness of her death. The physician had informed her that six
months was all she could hope to live. "I'll make a short six months of
it, for this life is hell, and hell can't be any worse than this," she
said.
When the church service closed on the following Sunday evening a
messenger was waiting at the Bemidji church to ask him to come at once
to the brothel. There he found the girl with whom he had talked. She
had taken blue vitrol and this was the end. She had been true to her
statement and had made a short six months of it.
The scarlet women turn to him naturally for aid, for they know that he
will do all he can to assist in their reformation. His ready sympathy
appeals to the outcasts.
On a train leaving Blackduck the Sky Pilot was sitting several seats
from a woman whose business was unmistakable. The car was filled with
men and the scarlet one was known to many in the coach. As the train
started she beckoned to the preacher to come and sit beside her. A
smile passed over the faces of the wise ones as the missionary took a
seat at her side.
But this is the woman's story: She had recognized Mr. Higgins, having
seen him when he visited a woman who was dying in a brothel. She was
leaving the place of her sin and degradation and did not know which
way to turn for help. Would he assist her? She was tired of it all and
wanted to live a better life, but knew of no place that would open
except such as linked her to the old.
Mr. Higgins knew of a place where the hands of Christians would welcome
her and the doors were always open--a Christian refuge in the city of
Duluth. Acting on his advice, and assisted by a letter of introduction,
she went to the place and today leads a respectable life under the
influence of a Savior. Did not the One of Nazareth say unto such, "Go,
and sin no more?"
Such is the condition that confronts the missionary in the towns and
villages near the camps. You may ask, "Are not the spoilers unfriendly,
antagonistic to the missionary, since they see that his work is in
opposition to theirs?" While they recognize Mr. Higgins as against
their nefarious traffic, yet they admire his sincerity and honesty,
and prove their respect for him by calling for his services in case of
death. They know that their business is under the ban, but they also
know that his Christian zeal causes him to love the men while he is
still an enemy to the business. In one of the saloons where the writer
accompanied Frank Higgins, the saloon man asked us to take a drink of
seltzer water.
"I wouldn't take even a drink of water in one of your saloons," replied
Mr. Higgins. "You know I am against your whole business."
"We know it," returned the saloon man, "but while you fight us, you do
it fair, and although you hurt us, we like you in spite of it."
So without enemies, even among his opponents, he goes from place to
place, helping pointing to Christ the lumberjacks, the saloon men, the
gamblers and the prostitutes, doing a work few are fitted to do.
The logging camp mission work must of necessity be a disconnected one,
and the missionary often does not see the final results of his labors
as in a settled pastorate, but the churches reap the benefit of what
is accomplished in the camps. Many are brought to Christ who would
never have been touched by his saving power if it had not been for the
itinerating work of the pineries. The church has too long neglected
this large field. Now she is attempting to redeem the time, but the
present effort is a small supply for such a large demand.
What is being done to counteract the influence that is thrown around
the lumberjacks in the towns? At present there is practically nothing
outside the two Bethels at Duluth, to help them, with the exception of
a small effort in the way of reading rooms, and I know of only two of
these, one in the town of Akeley, Minnesota, and the other in Bemidji,
Minnesota. About a year ago Mrs. T. B. Walker and the M. E. Church of
Akeley opened a public reading room particularly for the mill hands
and employees of the Red River Lumber Company. A little later Mrs.
Thomas Shevlin established the Crookston Lumber Company's Club Room in
the town of Bemidji. Here the men can congregate and read the papers
and magazines provided. But these are lonely exceptions of helpfulness.
The particular need of the lumbertown is a well-equipped, furnished
and up-to-date Bethel, for at present the only places open to the
lumberjacks are degrading--tending to produce poverty of soul and of
purse. The churches of these towns are not strong enough to carry on
the work unaided. If the demands are to be met, outside help must be
extended. The churches are willing, for the members see the need of
Bethels, but their own work calls for larger finances than at present
they are able to command.
If there is no place for him to enter except the saloons, then of
course we must expect the lumberjack to go where he will find a
welcome. Open a place where he can find rest apart from the tentacles
of temptation and we shall have done our part, and the forester will
do his. A Bethel will be to him a haven towards which his weary feet
and hungering social nature will turn with readiness, and in many
cases with more readiness than they now turn to the saloons. All men
are social creatures; the lumberjack is no exception. He wants to be
where his fellows are, to join in their conversations and to take part
in their interests, but the saloon is the only place that furnishes a
convenient rallying point.
"I don't like the saloon, I don't care to drink," said one, "but all
the fellows who are willing to talk to me are there and I must go
where they are." To meet the needs of the homeless the Bethel must be
substituted for the saloon. Since something is bound to grow, plant a
virtue where you uproot a vice.
The Bethel is not an untried theory, but a proven success. Where these
institutions have been introduced they have been well patronized and
great good has been accomplished. A gentleman of Duluth, Minnesota,
told of being on the bowery in that city, and noticed a lumberjack
looking at every sign as he passed along. The man wondered if he was
having difficulty in finding a saloon where saloons were so numerous.
Suddenly the woodsman's face lighted up as he came in sight of a
building bearing the sign of "Branch Bethel," and as he entered he
seemed to say, "Thank God, this is for me. Here I shall find friends."
Once such rest places are opened they can be made self-supporting,
or very nearly so. The lodging part of the plan would pay a good
return, an employment agency could be carried on that, in itself,
would be very helpful both to the men and employers, and add to the
profits, while the missionary and Christian woodsmen would advertise
the effort and largely add to its support. But apart from this, the
good they would accomplish can only be appreciated by those who know
the present surroundings of the campmen in town. When temptation is
reduced the increase in virtue is proportionate, where the stimulus to
righteousness is given men must respond. To prevent evil is as much a
Christian work as saving the fallen, and prevention would give less
need for cure.
In the establishment of a system of Bethels in the logging centers
there is a fine opening for Christian philanthropy. The men who have
made their fortunes through the labors of the woodsmen should be the
first to look to the uplifting of the fallen men in their employ.
In dollars and cents it would pay the lumber kings, and many of the
difficulties now present in the employment of men would be gradually
reduced. The lumbermen are becoming interested, but it is a work that
calls forth the interest of every lover of humanity.
[Illustration: CLARK AND JACKSONS LANDING ON THE ST. LOUIS RIVER.
18,000,000 FEET]