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.”

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.

From this very first meeting there arose between the two a friendship 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.

For weeks to come Jim Curwood worried and fretted over his literary 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.

J.C. WEBER