Unlike most authors of Jim Curwood’s day, thousands of people annually came to visit him and to see the fair city of Owosso, they came to meet him from all parts of the country, and to ask him countless, rather foolish questions. Being the well-bred, cultured man that he was, Jim complied by answering each question and replying to each letter written to him, to the very best of his ability.

During the morning hours, no one was allowed to see him or to interrupt his writing schedule in the slightest manner. For he had his daily writing stint of five hundred words to write and it must all be thoroughly checked. Jim never wrote more than five hundred words a day, for he felt that writing beyond that limit would tend to make his work slighty. In the afternoon, however, his duties were more numerous. The first part of the afternoon was devoted to the dictating of letters and to all general business that might be at hand. Then and only then would those people who wished to see him and ask him questions be admitted to his private study.

One of Jim’s greatest enjoyments was in the many letters he received daily from small children; letters that asked about only those things which small children could possibly want to know. He loved every one of those scrawled letters, for it not only showed him that people were reading his books, but that even small children loved his stories of his beloved northland.

Many were the times that great numbers of small children from Owosso would come and visit with the man from God’s Country. On these visits, Jim always saw to it that there was a treat for them on hand. He would take each in turn upon his knee and always managed to tell wonderful stories. Many residents of Owosso of the present time were among that group. They like to recall those days when they had the honor of sitting upon the knee of one of America’s most famous writers. The citizens of Owosso loved him immensely. For his undying love for humanity and his unquenchable love for all nature had indeed made Jim Curwood a patient, kindly and loving personality.

Many of the questions that Jim received in his morning mail ranged from the “ridiculous to the sublime.” “How shall I begin on my writing career?” “How do I construct or build a plot?” “Ought I to go to college for four years?” “How much education is needed to become a successful writer?” These and countless more just like them were Jim’s daily plight. Perhaps the most frequent question found in those letters was: “Will you sell my story for me?”

Many are the times that Jim’s laughter echoed throughout the walls of Curwood Castle as he pored over the amusing letters.

One of the principal reasons Jim Curwood received so many letters was the desire for the author’s signature. But there were those who, Jim realized, were struggling up that long, hard and difficult trail over which he had traveled, and so to these he always sent forth some kind and encouraging words. For the young man who is embarking upon a literary career, Jim’s advice was always this:

“Hard work and steady work for years, with a fixed purpose is most important.” He also said that an author trains himself for his life’s work just as a farmer learns to use the plough or hoe, or in the same manner that a surgeon studies to use his scalpel.

“Most authors are but ordinary men and women who have trained themselves to earn a livelihood with the pen.”

Perhaps the wisest and most important advice that James Oliver Curwood ever gave anyone was the importance of good physical condition at all times.

Jim’s advice to a young writer with plenty of ambition was to get plenty of sleep and always to arise early. By this he meant about four-thirty or five o’clock in the morning. Then to snap through a vigorous limbering-up exercise, followed by two or three glasses of good, cold water. The latter is a truly important factor. What with going to bed early and rising early of a morning along with the many different type exercises, James Oliver Curwood often voiced his opinion that he himself would live to be one hundred years old.

“After a bath, which includes the use of cold water, I have a breakfast which consists of half a bowl of bran with creamy milk. Dinner is at noon. There are many excellent reasons why a heavy meal should not be eaten at night. My dinner is largely composed of vegetables, though not infrequently we have fish or fowl. Meat once a week is quite enough for a man who wants a long life.

“After breakfast I walk vigorously for ten minutes, and as I have eaten lightly I do not thus disturb my digestive tract. I walk rapidly, for slow walking is no exercise at all, and am at my studio by half-past seven, vibrantly alive and eager to get to work for the sheer pleasure of it. My brain is clear and my body healthy because I have started the day right by taking the opportunity which Nature intended all men should have.”

The very first thing which he always did upon arriving at his studio of a morning was to have a fifteen-minute conference with his secretary, during which he gave out his daily instructions and explained just what was most important for her to do during the course of the day. Then into the tower study he went where he immediately disconnected the telephone and locked the door. This was a precaution he used so that he would not be disturbed. Here Jim buried himself until eleven-thirty in the morning. Under no consideration could anybody get in to see him unless it was the most urgent business which could not possibly wait. All morning hours were devoted entirely to his writing and he disliked very much being disturbed during those hours.

Once inside his study, Jim always looked over the previous day’s correspondence, checked it and then carefully filed it away. Upon completing this he would pick up his notes and yesterday’s planning for today’s work and study it carefully for several minutes. Then he would clear his desk of all unnecessary materials and begin the work which did not let up until four-thirty in the afternoon, except for a brief lunch period.

Some days Jim’s work would come easily, clearly and distinctly; but on other days he would feverishly wrack his brain in order to drag forth words one by one.

For the most part, the majority of authors hurriedly write the first draft of their story, check it thoroughly and then carefully write the second draft. Finally the third and final draft is written and then the yarn is ready for the publisher. Such a procedure was against Jim Curwood’s policy, for he did not believe in writing a story too hurriedly, checking it and later revising it. He was a slow, deliberate worker and never averaged more than five hundred words per day, or only two full-sized manuscript pages. He slowly and methodically built every sentence and every paragraph as he went along. He never returned to rebuild that which he had already constructed.

“I build every line and page of my manuscript to the best of my ability, with the result that I am a very slow worker, as compared with many. I average only about five hundred words per day. Often I have spent an entire forenoon on one paragraph of a dozen lines. I stay with a difficult passage until it is done satisfactorily. I never put off until to-morrow what I find hard today, for to-morrow rarely brings the needed skill.”

At noontime Jim would always lay off from his work for a half an hour. This always afforded him ample time to look over his gardens, which consisted mainly of onions and radishes. The raising of onions and radishes was his hobby and one of which he was indeed proud. He always took particular pride in his ability to raise the finest of these vegetables in the surrounding territory.

Promptly at four-thirty of an afternoon, Jim was up and away from the studio, unless he had a story which he felt must be completed, or else some important business matter that must have his personal attention. And when he did leave his studio, he immediately looked for recreation, which as a whole was not very hard to find. He was very fond of a brisk walk, a swim, golf, or a horseback ride. His two favorite sports, however, above all others, were horseback-riding and handball. On many of his trips into the wilds he would take along a few horseshoes and a handball outfit to help keep trim as well as to provide relaxation. Jim played handball with a vengeance and could never quite get enough of it. Regardless of what sport he participated in, he always played hard, industriously and squarely. As it was with his writing, Jim never knew quite when to call a halt to his recreational activities.

As twilight would begin to break forth Jim always liked to sit out on the terrace that he loved so well or else take a long walk or a drive in his auto. Twilight would lengthen into dusk and unless he had something else more important to do he would spend the evening with his wife and children before retiring. But Jim did not retire to rest and to sleep as most men do. Instead he went to bed to think and meditate and ponder over his problems.

On one particular occasion, Ray Long visited Jim at his home in Owosso. The two men sat up late one night in order to develop a plot for the new novel Jim had in mind. It had to be something different from anything previously written, and so for many hours Ray and Jim studied earnestly and tirelessly over the possibilities. The new work Jim had in mind was to be entitled “Nomads of the North.” Mr. Long eventually suggested a situation that appealed to Jim’s vivid imagination and so together the two of them developed their idea for all it was worth. That night both men went to bed elated and highly satisfied over the prospects of the new story. Mr. Long later explained how surprised he was the next morning when Jim appeared at the breakfast table and informed him that the plot would not do. Obviously he had gone to bed the night before and had laid awake for most of the night turning the plot and situation over and over in his mind. Then at last he had come to the conclusion that the animals involved would not be likely to do the things that he had planned for them to do.

The very popular and famous Ray Long, who published numerous James Oliver Curwood stories serially in his magazine, once spoke of Jim:

“James Oliver Curwood is a writing man because he has something to say, and he writes only of those things which he knows best. His novels are set in the far North region of Canada because he not only knows but actually loves that country.”

That Curwood’s God is Nature and that in his books he preaches constantly the beauty and glory of his creed the reading public quite generally knows. He is a writing man because he has something important to talk about.

James Oliver Curwood loved the North as few men have ever loved a country in which they have not been registered citizens. Even long before he was employed by the Canadian government as an exploratory writer on the Northlands, Jim had already grown to love that land, for many trips already lay behind him. He knew many of the Mounties, he had trapped and prospected in the Yukon and in and around Hudson’s Bay; he knew his North as few men ever could know it. But the element which made him so popular was that he loved the country about which he wrote. Ray Long, then editor of Redbook Magazine, knew the author quite well and told many wonderful things about him.

“When Jim Curwood described the coming of spring in the northern mountains, he saw and wrote of beauty which brought a lump to my throat. He wrote melodrama, yes; there was action and vigor and at times brutality in his stories; he was far from being the greatest psychologist who ever wrote: but he was sincere, he loved nature, he made you love nature. And that’s not a bad epitaph for a writer, is it?”

For two full years Curwood was an employee of the Dominion and it was during those years that he gathered much of the material about which he has written. Also, during that time, Jim lived among the Eskimos and the Indians. Few people, if any, realize that the trips before and after his government contract had expired were entirely at his own expense, so sincere was he about that which he wrote. Many were the times that Jim formed his own expeditions and went farther north than most men have ever dared penetrate, save those internationally famous explorers who have reached and discovered the North Pole.

He has actually been up as far as the Arctic sea and has oft times gone out upon it in search of adventure and material for his stories. He has braved every type of danger and adventure practically known to mankind, as far as the North goes, to bring back thrill-packed stories for the world at large to enjoy. A. J. Donovan, of Owosso, who was a school-mate of Jim’s, often said this of him in later life:

“Jim passed on just when he was doing his home town, his state and his country the most good.”

By that Mr. Donovan meant that Jim Curwood’s work in conservation was at last being heeded and that wild life was beginning to be conserved. He also had in mind that Jim was doing his people more good by his inspirational and courageous writings than few men of his time have ever done.

Many, many times Jim had openly declared that he simply could not write in his fine, new home.

“I just cannot write in my own home. Something is missing there that gives me the inspiration that I do so need.”

Jim’s home is one of the most beautiful and stately ones in all of Owosso. But because he was a wilderness man, a true disciple of the wilds, and because of the Indian blood flowing in his veins, he found it difficult to write inside four walls. He found it difficult even to do so inside the walls of Curwood Castle, his own especially-built writing studio. His great-grandmother was a full blooded Mohawk Indian princess, and his famous ancestor, Captain Frederick A. Marrayat, was a great seaman and world renowned novelist. It is therefore easy to see how the adventure blood must have been surging through Jim’s veins.

Jim loved the great open spaces where all was silent and peaceful so much, that when he was away from it for a long period of time, he was quite hard to get along with. That was one of the reasons for building his Castle so he could decorate it to his own satisfaction and still feel the tang of the wilds about him. That was why he built it along the shores of the Shiawassee, “Sparkling Waters.” It had that ancient and wild look about it that gave him inspiration.

Jim lived and died an outdoorsman, believing in “the fundamental rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” for all creatures of the wilderness. And so during his climb to the top rung of the ladder of success he had acquired several thousands of acres of forest land in northern Michigan, just a short way from the little city of Roscommon. There in the very center of “his own wilderness,” Jim Curwood built himself what was almost a baronial castle done in logs. Each log was from a tree which he had selected himself, making sure that his “out-of-the-way retreat” was constructed with the finest the forests had to offer.

Although situated along the banks of the Au Sable River and just a short way from the town of Roscommon, Jim would not consider having a telephone in his cabin. Although within that same distance there were electric light wires, Jim absolutely refused to have them in his wilderness home. He insisted upon keeping his lodge absolutely primitive, and that is exactly what he did.

The place cost him many thousands of dollars, but he would have no modern plumbing of any sort installed. He maintained that it was possible “to be luxuriously primitive—or primitively luxurious,” and in the end it cost him his life.

Here in this “stag hiding place” were some of Jim’s very best friends. Namely, they were the mink, the wildcat, the marten, squirrel and many other creatures of the wilds. It was here at the cabin in upper Michigan and the place in the upper part of Canada that Jim had a most contented peace, and could note wildlife at its very best.

Bruce Otto, the noted timber country guide, made many trips with Jim Curwood and helped him build several of his cabins which are scattered all over the wilds of the Canadian Northlands, ranging from the mountains of British Columbia to the wilds surrounding Hudson’s Bay. Those two men have lived entirely off the land for months at a time, securing whatever food was necessary when the time arrived. It was on journeys as these that Jim secured material for such great novels of the North as “River’s End,” “The Valley of Silent Men,” and “The Flaming Forest.”

“I traveled three thousand miles up and down the mighty Saskatchewan before I wrote ‘The River’s End,’ and if I had not gone down the Athabaska, the Slave and the Mackenzie with the ‘Wild river brigades,’ of God’s Country, I could never have written ‘The Valley of Silent Men.’”

Jim Curwood actually lived with those wonderful characters of his books. He has lived with the strong men and brave women from such books as “God’s Country and the Woman,” “The Honor of the Big Snows,” “Kazan” and many others.

In Jim Curwood’s home are twenty-seven guns of all types and calibers. Each of them has seen much service, and all of them have notches cut into them recording the number of kills made. The entire place, from attic to basement, is filled with pelts and mounted heads. These trophies, denoting the days when he was known as a great hunter, are regarded as martyrs. For, from that day when the “great light appeared,” Jim Curwood ceased being the hunter, the trapper, the destroyer of nature and wild life. For, in what he terms his religion, Jim believed that the wild creatures understood him and believed in him as their friend. This understanding and belief was eventually written into the volume entitled “God’s Country—The Trail to Happiness.” This was James Oliver Curwood’s worldly confession as a “killer.” At the time and for years after, Jim vowed that he was far more happier writing this particular book than any others he had ever penned.

“Nature is my religion; and my desire, my ambition, the great goal I wish to achieve, is to take my readers with me into the heart of this nature. I love it and I feel that they must love it—if only I can get the two acquainted!”

In his article, “James Oliver Curwood and His Far North,” Ray Long gave forth his ideas concerning Jim’s fame:

“My belief in Curwood’s accuracy was based on my knowledge of the man and on my scant knowledge of wild animal life gained on short vacations. To have a man like Thomas Linklader confirm him meant more to me than the confirmation from a dozen Stepanssons, for Thomas really knew his woods. Jim took me one day to the scene of a caribou battle, and from the footprints in the gravel by the shore of a stream reconstructed the entire fight. He could tell me with greater accuracy than any man I ever met in the North, just where we would find any particular kind of fish. He absolutely knew what he was talking about.

“I returned to my desk with still greater faith in Curwood, and from then on published practically everything he wrote. I think I enjoy as much as he possibly can, the announcement that 105,000 copies of his latest novel, ‘The Valley of Silent Men,’ were sold before publication. For Curwood had come into his own. He had won a vast audience among novel readers as he long ago won a great number of magazine readers.”

This in itself shows the faith that millions of people had in Jim Curwood. All who could purchased his books, for they knew that what he wrote was accurate, authentic and realistic. They knew that he had practically lived the stories about which he wrote. That accounts for the great pre-publication sales of over two dozen or so of his novels.

On many occasions Jim was asked just what a writer should write about, and he always came forth with this reply:

“Authors should write only about those people, things and places which they know. This should be self-evident; yet nearly every one of them has almost a fatalistic passion to do otherwise. If you live in a picturesque country village, don’t write about the city. On the other hand, if your life is in the city, don’t try to write of the characters and settings you know little or nothing about. There is no sufficient reason why a Michigan author should write of Arizona. Nor is there any excuse for a young woman who lives in a lovely cove by the sea with a world of rich material about her, to write of what is happening at Newport or Palm Beach. Stick to truth when you write fiction—truth as to details, habits, and settings—even though the story be wholly imaginary. No other books have a chance to live.”

Those few lines explain why Curwood’s works have been “best sellers,” and are still in great use today. He possessed that “certain something” that all writers of fiction pray for—that vivid imagination and forseeable power behind them to keep driving constantly forward. Jim had the courage to fight almost insurmountable odds and consequently he came through. What Jim Curwood started he usually finished. Some advice which came directly from his lips should be well to heed:

“Only those who are quite prepared to labor long and hard for little pay, and without assurance of fame, should undertake to write for a living. A few earn large sums—but only a few. The great majority eke out a bare existence, living in anticipation of the great good fortune that is just around the corner.”

Jim Curwood wrote for ten long years before he was ever able to place and sell a story; at the end of that tenth year, Jim sold his first one for $5.00. $5.00 for ten years of work! He merely overcame those fits of despondency that attacked him through the hundreds and hundreds of rejection slips that came to him. Jim learned to believe what each one said. He kept at his work tirelessly throughout those ten long years.

With the arrival of 1926, the public saw the last of Jim’s historical novels and the last book length work which he ever wrote. This one was entitled “The Black Hunter.” Its sale was widespread.

Following the publication of “The Black Hunter” Curwood devoted himself to shorter forms of fiction and several articles on the preservation of natural resources. During this period Jim came closer to God in his love of nature than ever before. His life thus far was a success. Upon many occasions while relaxing in his studio, he would unconsciously pick up his pen and write his feelings about God and mankind. A few of these memorable writings have been preserved:

“The Great Master has opened to me the book wherein is written the secret of a joyful life—a secret which he never intended to be hidden, but which has been concealed for untold years because men will not read what is spread upon the pages of the wonderful book, or having read, will not believe. Their eyes are hidden so that they do not see the glory of living and their ears do not hear the myriad sounds which blend in life’s immortal melody.”

“I have found the great understanding heart of Nature, and the thrill of its discovery has set the blood coursing faster in my veins. I have learned to understand the voice of Nature, and in doing so have obtained health, developed faith, and partaken of the glory of living. In that voice there is inspiration, and it whispers to me the hope that all shall soon understand.”

Jim lived a life wherein he had found the true joy of living and consequently his habits were of the best type. Believing strongly that there is good in every man and woman, he wrote and created his characters in much the same manner:

“The world is filled with strong and good men, and with women who are beautiful and virtuous, people who are the equals or superiors of those who live in the pages of my books. It is about such folks that I choose to write.

“I thank God that in only one of my books, and that an early one, have I approached what would have evidently pleased that critic. Why should I not write of wholesome men and women, of clean actions, of just and upright conduct? Why should I not recount tales of people who cherished ideals? Why should I refrain from telling of the things to which we all aspire?

“I see no good reason why I should take a woman of the streets and glorify her, though once, when I was a boy, one of them gave me a glimpse of as unselfish a devotion to the finer things in life as I have ever known in any woman. There are too many good women whom I may glorify and clothe with ideals. Why should I make my women ugly in character or in appearance when we all love beauty? We always choose the most beautiful flowers of the entire garden for the bed chambers of our guests.

“Why shouldn’t I punish the bad people in my books and make a record that happiness came eventually to those who deserved it? Some critics may say, ‘people are not like that and things don’t come out that way,’ but my experience has been to the contrary. Happiness does come to those who deserve it. Eventually their ears do catch the immortal melody of life, as Melisse heard the music of her people; and they often learn to appreciate it long before they pass on to another existence.”

Although from the beautiful Au Sable River less than one hundred yards away Jim could have had water delivered into the cabin by the very simple process of having an electric pump, only a handpump in the kitchen was permitted to be installed.

The isolated place of beauty cost him thousands and thousands of dollars, but he would not have in it any modern plumbing.

Due to the absence of a few modern conveniences Jim was bitten by a poisonous spider, and even though he had often boasted that he intended to live to be at least one hundred years old, and had so arranged his life that under ordinary conditions he might have lived to be that age, a spider upset his life’s plans.

Shortly after the insect had bitten him Jim left for his home in Owosso seeking medical attention. This was on August 8, 1927. The physicians were strangely puzzled by the malady which plagued Owosso’s favorite son. He was seriously ill with an unusual and seemingly unknown disease. The newspapers throughout the country carried stories of Jim’s condition and almost immediately specialists from everywhere rushed to his aid, if aid were possible. All the efforts of the doctors and specialists who rushed to the bedside of James Oliver Curwood in those early days of August, 1927, were futile. He was given a blood transfusion by his daughter, Mrs. Carlotta Jirus, of Detroit, but this, too, was of no avail ... on August 13, with his wife, Ethel, his son, James, his two daughters, Carlotta and Viola, his brother, Ed, and his two sisters, Amy and Cora, at his bedside, James Oliver Curwood, writer, conservationist, exponent and lover of Nature, passed away.

The Detroit Free Press ran this story on August 14, 1927.

Owosso, Mich., Aug. 14—A.P.—Funeral services for James Oliver Curwood, author and noted conservationist, who died late last night after a week’s illness of a general infection, will be conducted at the residence at 2:30 o’clock by the Rev. J. Twyson Jones, of the First Congregational Church.

Interment will be in Oakhill Cemetery where his father and mother are buried. Pallbearers had not been selected today, but in compliance with the author’s wish, will be Owosso residents.

Death came to the writer of stories of the Northlands at his home, “Curwood Castle,” here, after a desperate battle against the infection that steadily sapped his strength. In an effort to stay the ravages of the infection, a daughter, Mrs. Antonio P. Jirus, of Detroit, gave of her blood in a transfusion operation.

After rallying somewhat, the author weakened again rapidly and his physicians announced that his death was a matter of hours only.

Curwood was born in Owosso on June 12, 1878, the son of James Moran and Abigail (Griffen) Curwood, and spent his boyhood near Vermillion, Ohio, his family later returning to Owosso. He attended the University of Michigan. He spent the greater part of his life at his birthplace.

“The Courage of Captain Plum,” his first novel, was written in 1908, after he had spent seven years in newspaper work.

From then on the books flowed from his pen. There followed “The Wolf Hunters,” 1908; “The Great Lakes,” and “The Gold Hunters,” in 1909; “The Danger Trail,” in 1910; “The Honor of the Big Snows,” and “Philip Steele of the Royal Mounted,” written in 1911.

Others of his novels included “Kazan,” 1914; “Nomads of the North,” 1919; “The Valley of Silent Men,” 1920; and “The Flaming Forest,” in 1921, and his latest “The Black Hunter.” Writing was in Curwood’s blood. On his father’s side, he was descended from Captain Marrayat, the novelist.

A zealous crusader for conservation of natural resources, Curwood was considered an authority on the Canadian northland, and was the only American ever employed by the Canadian government as an exploratory and descriptive writer.

His championship of conservation in the fullest sense often brought him into conflict, and in several meetings, national and state, he stirred a storm of controversy.

In 1926 he abruptly resigned as a director of the Izaak Walton League in a stormy meeting in Chicago. At a meeting held in Owosso, he opposed policies of John Baird, then Michigan director of conservation, so heatedly that the state conservationists formed factions to which they held strongly for several years.

With the conclusion of the term of office of Baird, and the election of Governor Fred W. Green, Curwood was appointed to the new conservation commission. Frequently at meetings he protested against what he termed the lethargy of the other members.

Besides his keen interest in conservation, Curwood was deeply interested in civic enterprises in his home city, contributing liberally to such undertakings.

Two daughters are children of Curwood’s first marriage. A son, James Oliver Curwood II, and his second wife, who was Miss Ethel Greenwood, Owosso teacher, also survive.

On that fateful thirteenth day of August, 1927, the news was flashed to the entire world that one of the greatest of all outdoor fiction writers was dead. James Oliver Curwood, beloved teller of tales of the beautiful Canadian Northwest, had passed away. It was an unexpected blow which the entire world mourned and bitterly regretted. For, in losing Jim Curwood, no longer could the great tradition of the mighty northlands be upheld.

Even the Crees, the Chippawayans and the Shiwashes Indian tribes of the far reaches of the north mourned the loss of the “great white father,” who to them was “Jeems.”

The old sourdoughs along the wilderness trails also felt the loss of Jim’s cheerful presence. The old men of the north whom Jim had invited down to his Castle on many occasions from the distant reaches felt the hurt of losing Jim Curwood probably more than anyone else, save that of his own immediate family.

The following epitaph appeared along with James Oliver Curwood’s last article, his last work. It was entitled “Thou Shalt Not Kill,” and was written and completed but a few days before he was stricken. The foreword to this article was written by the editor of American Magazine in the December, 1927, issue, exactly four months after Jim’s passing. Of all the articles he had ever written, this last one, his last and final plea for wild life, affected the public most of all. It was truly his last stand, and a glorious ending it was:

“James Oliver Curwood is dead. One of the most popular fiction writers of his generation, one of the most ardent and courageous lovers of outdoor life, he leaves millions of devoted admirers to mourn him.

“Only a month before his death, Mr. Curwood sent me this telegram:

‘Am working on an article for you which I have wanted to write for five years, and I think it is the best thing I have ever done. Shall have copy ready to mail you within week. Good wishes.’

“But it was nearly a fortnight before the article reached us, for the author was already in the primary stages of his fatal malady.

“Almost at the beginning of this, his last article, Mr. Curwood wrote:

‘When I am ready to enter this most glorious of adventures, the mystery and privilege of death, I shall need no greater comforts in the first abysmal moments of its presence than these things—the grass, the flowers, the beautiful dove on her nest, the voice of the birds, the rippling song of water, the inspiration and courage of the trees.’

“Before that message could be put into type the hand that had written it lay in eternal rest.

“These pages hold Mr. Curwood’s final plea for the preservation of our wildlife, a movement in which he was a veritable crusader. He hated game hogs, with an undying hatred, because he loved nature with an undying love. Here you will find, simply and sincerely expressed, his creed of the wild.

Two days after his death, on the fifteenth of August, James Oliver Curwood was laid to rest in the quiet, peaceful little cemetery of Oak Hill, in Owosso.

Owosso, Mich., Aug. 16—With Governor Fred W. Green, the state conservation director and several members of the conservation commission acting as honorary pallbearers, James Oliver Curwood, author and conservationist, was laid to rest here this afternoon following funeral services at his home.

Burial took place in Oak Hill Cemetery, beside the graves of his parents, Mr. and Mrs. James Moran Curwood.

The rites were marked by simplicity.

The home of the author was filled with intimate friends while hundreds stood about the spacious grounds and streets adjacent to the residence. State Police led the funeral cortege. Members of the Shiawassee Conservation Association, of which Mr. Curwood was a director, attended in a body, as did members of Owosso Lodge No. 81, F. & A. M., which the author had recently joined.

Dr. J. Twyson Jones, pastor of the First Congregational Church, and an intimate friend of the author, in the funeral sermon, eulogized Curwood as “a man who has written his own eulogy on the imperishable scroll of undying fame.”

The pastor said Curwood’s three hobbies were writing, conservation and social betterment, declaring that “the passive and selfish politician” did not command Curwood’s respect. Dr. Jones also paid the writer tribute for the many things he had done for Owosso, the town of his birth.

Following the services, the massive copper casket was carried to the waiting hearse through a line formed by the Masons.

The cortege moved through the streets lined with sorrowing fellow townsmen of the author, to the cemetery where, after a brief service, the body of Owosso’s most distinguished son was interred.

Business activities throughout the city were suspended during the services.