"The woods were God's first temples." I cannot pass through the pineries, beholding the long fingers of cooling green pointing to the eternal blue, without feeling an exaltation of spirit, a desire to praise the Creator. The shrub and towering tree, the aisles of the woods and the sweet soothing comfort of the silence all conduce to prayer and adoration. No temple is more suggestive of worship than that whose dome is of sheltering leaves and whose columns are living, graceful trees. But the camps are the destroyers of the primitive temples, and their denizens are not suggestive of devoutness; yet in the rude hewn shacks of the lumberjacks nature is heard speaking and her voice is persuasively calling to worship. In the gray of dawn her call is clear and sweet, and as the loggers tighten their heavy belts and view the new-born day she whispers, "Praise." In the busy noon day, amidst the bruised and broken tops, the playing winds repeat the echo of the morning, "Praise." Then when the hush of evening falls o'er the dying day and the purple of the west shows through the crown of richest green, the evening shadows take up the chorus, "Praise him for his goodness, for his love to the children of men."

On visiting a camp for the first time Frank Higgins is apt to inquire, "Ever had any preachers up this way?"

"No. Nobody cares whether we make the landing in Hades or not," is likely to be the answer.

"Preachers are only after the stake," said one. "They don't care for us poor devils. Heaven was made for the rich, and not for us lumberjacks. We're only welcome down the slide."

"Well, here is one who isn't after the stake," replied the minister, "and his interest is in the lumberjack."

"Where is the guy? I'd like to meet him," remarked the woodsman, evidently thinking such a preacher must be an unknown variety. "I'm the fellow," returned the missionary, "and I'll prove it by preaching in the bunkhouse tonight. What time will suit? 7:30, you say? Well, let all the boys know and come prepared to sing. That's your part of the service."

The Rev. Frank Higgins has not much suggestion of "the cloth" about him. If you met him on the logging road there is nothing in his dress to stamp him as a minister, but everything to proclaim him a lumberjack. His dress is that of his parishioners, mackinaw jacket, belt, boots, socks and cap suggest the logger. His physical appearance is in keeping with the camp; he is broad-shouldered and built for endurance. He is not a tall man, being but five feet nine or ten, but his weight is two hundred pounds of muscle. He does not look the preacher, but ask the lumberjacks about it and they will tell you "there is no other."

The supper is over and the men have crowded into the bunkhouse where the meeting is to be held. What an audience! It is cosmopolitan; the ends of the earth have contributed, except the far east. All classes and conditions are in the group, evidences of the best and worst, but on all of them the stamp of isolation—they are far from the accustomed haunts of men, and everything proclaims it. Sixty to one hundred and sixty men are in the log shack. The benches at the end of the bunks are filled with waiting men, the bunks above contain many who are lounging in attitudes of individual fancy. No straight, erect or formal audience is this; it is as free as the forest air, as informal as Eden, but not so cleanly. The congregation is coatless, collarless, often bootless, for probably half of them are in their stocking feet, while the temporarily discarded boots are heaped around the huge stove to dry. Pipes send forth long streams of smoke, and in various parts of the room card games are in progress. Extra lanterns hang around the shack, sending out a dim uncertain light that only partly dissipates the gloom of the interior. The cylindrical stove contains the crackling logs and the emitted warmth is the only note of cheer. The rank odor of cheap tobacco mingles with the nauseating aroma of the myriad socks hung above the stove and the poorly ventilated place is stifling, oppressive and depressing. Everything is unsuggestive of the sanctuary, but the Father of men meets with his children in the heavy smelling bunkhouse the same as in the bright, costly cathedral.

Behind the upturned barrel, whose altar cloth is a coarse horse blanket, stands the preacher. No Genevan gown lends its grace to his figure, but coatless he stands, an earnest man, physically fearless, powerful in the love for God and man. The hymnbooks have been passed around, some familiar hymn is announced and the command to sing is given. Not such music as kisses the ear of the worshiper in the fashionable churches, where the trained voices blend in superb harmony, is the music in the camps. It lacks in sweetness, but is not deficient in volume and heartiness.

Scripture is read, or rather recited, for it is nearly impossible to read in the dim light emitted by the lanterns, then the Sky Pilot tells what the gospel can do for the loggers and what the Christ can accomplish in them. He speaks plainly of their wasted lives, the folly of spending their money in the saloons, in gambling dens, in brothels, and points them to Christ, who can keep a man from all that links him to the pit.

Do the men listen to the story of the Savior? Yes, with an interest that can only come from soul-starved men. They have been feeding on the husks, have known the companionship of swine in the form of men and vampires who resembled women, have wanted love and found only vice; so they listen gladly to the news of another life, another world, another love that is clean and pure. Their dreams have been of heaven, but their lives have been lived in hell, and the Sky Pilot's story seems to make the dream attainable.

I well remember a sermon he preached on the Prodigal Son, but the environment must be present if one is to reproduce the sermon. It was well suited to the audience, plain, too plain for a city audience, but an unmistakable message for the men of the forest. Figures of speech had little place in it; of poetry there was little except the poetry of direct simplicity; it was unadorned Anglo-Saxon with the crash and clang of the language in its strength, but it was a story full of love, hope and cheer that appealed to the hundred men who breathlessly listened while the wind of winter beat the drifting snow against the camp.

Here are some extracts given wholly from memory:

"One of the boys stayed at home and one left the old homestead. Now it wasn't the fellow that stayed at home that the father was worrying about, but the fellow that packed his "turkey" and went out to blow his stake. You lumberjacks are in that youngster's place and the old folks are wondering where you are and what you are doing. Because a man leaves home it isn't necessary to be a prodigal, but his chances to make a fool of himself are better if he is away from the old home and its memories."

Then came the story of his own home-leaving and how the mother watched him until the turn in the road hid him from view.

"That mother's prayers have followed me through life. My story is yours with the names changed. Some one wants to hear that you still live. Write a letter tonight.

"Because the fellow had money he found friends, but there never was a friend worth having who was made or bought through money. This young fellow in the parable reminds me of the lumberjack coming down the river in the spring and landing in one of the logging towns. Men who have never heard of him become his friends at once; the barkers of the dens wait at the train to give him the glad hand; he has friends galore and is the most popular man that enters the town—he has money. Then they bleed him to a finish, as they did the prodigal in the Bible. There are men in these towns who have your wages figured up already and they smile and chuckle as they toast their shins at the base burner, thinking what a good time they will have with your money when you come down in the spring. Don't think you are working for yourselves; the saloonmen and their crowd are the ones who cash your checks and bank your coin. Some of the men in the saloon business that came to these parts when I did and were as poor as I am, are now living in the finest houses in the north and eat the best the land affords. The wives of these men are dressed in silks, and their hands and necks glisten with the jewels you bought with your winter's labor—but you still wear the coarse socks and haven't a cent in the bank. Now, men, were you ever invited into the homes you built for the saloonmen, gamblers and brothel keepers? Were you ever given an introduction to the wives whom you dressed in silks and jewels? No, and you never will be. They don't want you; they are after your cash. That's how they treated the prodigal of old; that's how they treat the prodigal lumberjack of today.

"Well, after awhile the prodigal was broke and he asked his friends for a lift, but his friends weren't in the lifting business. It was their business to help him to spend, but not to spend for him. Do you remember when you had spent all at the bar, the wheel, or the brothel, how you asked a loan for a lodging of the man in whose till your winter's earnings rested, and he gave you a hunch to go up river and earn more? Well, the prodigal was in the same boat, for they said to him as they said to you, 'Go up the river, old man. It's the husks and the hogs for you now.'

"But when the men who rob and spoil will not give you a hand, the Father will. In the father's home was the only place the prodigal found a hearty reception, and in the Lord Jesus Christ you will find a welcome."

Then came the gospel message with its cheer and loving hope, the story of how God gave Christ to die that the prodigal might have light and love, and how through him the homestead opens, where love undefiled and almighty help is given unstintedly.

It was a homely sermon, a plain message, a description of life they too well understood because they had too often experienced it. Many a head was bowed in shame as the story of the prodigal's life was told, for the listeners knew it was a tale, not of the times of Christ, but taken from their own lives. When the preacher spoke of the loving Father who warmly welcomes the wanderers there was expectancy in the faces of the auditors.

It was after Mr. Higgins had preached this sermon on a former occasion that a young man came to him for a private conversation. The sermon had awakened a longing for a better life in which real love was to take the place of shame. He had been carried back to the old home, and heard the mother praying for the absent boy.

"Pilot," he said, "I want to pray for myself. Tell me how and I'll do it."

"Come on, my boy," said the Pilot, "and under the pines we'll pray together."

Out under the tall sentinels they went, and there on the frozen snow they knelt while the prayers of the minister and the lumberjack ascended to the ever-approachable throne.

The next day the lad wrote home to his old mother in Quebec, telling her of his hope in Christ and his new relation to God. She had not heard from him in months, and now the news he sent made her join in the raptures of the angel chorus. Immediately she wrote a letter of gratitude to Mr. Higgins and when the missionary read, "For this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found," he saw a new figure in the parable—it was the prodigal's mother.

After the meeting is over and the shack is lighted only by the stray gleams that steal through the chinks of the stove, some of the men will continue to talk to the minister of their far-off homes and the loved ones they have not seen for years. The years are reviewed and there is a wish that life were different. By the burning fires of the bunkhouse many a long closed heart has been opened and many a life surrendered to God.

Sometimes a man will come to Mr. Higgins after the services and invite the missionary to sleep with him in the bunkhouse. Since the missionaries are generously accorded the privileges of the office by almost all of the proprietors, the invitation of the lumberjack is one that holds in itself no allurement. The bunks in the sleeping quarters of the men are often filled with small annoyances that are fruitful and multiply and disturb the occupants of the bunks. But when such an invitation is given the missionary seldom refuses it. He knows that the man who gives it means more than to share the discomforts of his lodging—he wishes to get near the messenger so that in the darkness and quiet he can secure spiritual aid. In the bunks men have been helped over difficulties and have freely surrendered themselves to the Divine Son. There may be distasteful things to encounter, but the chance to help a man is worth more than the sacrifice of comfort.

It was after a camp service that a young man came to the Pilot and asked:

"Isn't there any way that I can make my life count? I'm sick of going on this way, Pilot. I'm sledding in the wrong direction. Tonight I'm disgusted, so give me a lift."

As a result of the lift he was led to God and encouraged to save his money for future schooling. During the evenings of that winter the young man spent his time in study and when spring came a large part of his earnings were deposited in the bank. The following summer he procured work in the saw mill and books were the companions of his leisure hours. So absorbed did he become in his new purpose that he carried his book to the mill and when the machinery stopped to make repairs out came the book. The proprietor of the mill observed the diligence of the new hand and changed him to the sawdust pile where he could have more time for his books. So absorbed would he become that often he allowed the sawdust to take care of itself. The men called him "the book worm in the sawdust." School followed his winter's work, and now he is a successful civil engineer. In the bunkhouse on the night of his surrender a soul and a life were saved.

That sweet old favorite hymn, the favorite of the home and prayer meeting, the source of comfort in the house of mourning, is the favorite in the camps—"Jesus, Lover of My Soul." Those unloved men of the distant places feel the influence of the hymn which speaks of the tender Christ opening his bosom to the outcast as well as the respected. Its plaintive melody appeals to them, and the lonely men of the forest sing it with the spirit of those who long for sympathy and unselfish love.

The night before they had sung the old song over and over again. The whole camp had joined in with hearty spirit. After the breakfast was over the men went to the bunkhouse to wait for the word of the "push" ordering them to the morning's labor in the works. While they waited one of the men who possessed a rich tenor voice struck up the hymn, "Jesus lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly." One by one the men joined in the song, and the solo passed into a chorus of one hundred voices. Out through the twilight of the morning the melody rolled, waking the sleeping pines and crossing the frozen streams. The men in the stables, harnessing their horses, heard the song and softly whistled it; the cook, busy with his pots and pans, hummed in unison, and the swearing cookee closed his profane mouth and listened in wonder. Over in the office where the proprietor and others of the higher grade of labor made their quarters, the song caused silent amazement, for it did not seem like the morning hour of the camp, where usually only profane sounds break the stillness.

"Other refuge have I none, Hangs my helpless soul on Thee," sang the men. "Leave, ah, leave me not alone," and it came from the hearts of men who knew the weight of lonely weeks and months. The Sky Pilot in the office turned his face to the wall and prayed while they sang.

"All out," cried the "push," and from the bunkhouse streamed the men, singing the song of comfort. Into groups they separated, each going his appointed way, but the song still continued in all parts of the forest, until the sweet melody of the hymn died to tender murmurs and was lost in the distant evergreens. In all that north state no happier body of men went forth to toil, for with them went the spirit of the song.

Sometimes disturbances mar the meetings. But they are not as frequent as in the early days, when it was considered the proper thing in some camps to create a row. The earnestness of the man and the strength of his body has gained respect for this teacher of righteousness. The work, also, is better understood and a realization of the value of missionary effort has brought about a change in sentiment. When Mr. Higgins first began his work he used a little muscular Christianity as well as persuasion in regulating the deportment of the men during the services; now he has learned a better way. The Frenchman who undertook to create a rough house, and suddenly found himself standing on his head in a barrel of water, having been put there by the Rev. Frank Higgins, will not feel like disturbing one of his services again. The persuasion of a man who can physically take care of a religious gathering is a great incentive to undisturbed worship, even though the meeting be held in the forest.

The day after the meeting is the time for personal work, for hand-picked fruit, for heart-to-heart conversations. While the service is in progress the quick eye of the evangelist singles out those who are most receptive to the word of life, and on the morrow he goes to assist by private word the work done in the public meeting. From the clerk he finds where they are working in the forest and goes to join them in their labors. Here is where the finely developed body comes into play for the King. One of the secrets of aiding workingmen is to understand their labors; they admire the man who is capable in their individual line, and Frank Higgins is a woodsman who knows how to swing the ax and pull the saw. While working with them he talks of Christ and tries to draw the worker to him.

In the bunkhouse, during one of the services, an old man sat in his bunk with his little nondescript dog in his lap. Loneliness was written on his deep-lined face; while the others sang he was silent. "Don't you sing?" asked the missionary, handing him a book.

"None of your blank business," gruffly mumbled the old man.

All through the service the old fellow was silent, seemingly hearing no word of the sermon. The next day the missionary went to the "ink splasher" and inquired where the old man could be found.

"That's Old Grouchy. He's the road monkey and you'll find him on the east road about this time of day," directed the clerk.

"Good morning," was the greeting of the missionary as he came up to the road monkey.

"Mornin'," answered Old Grouchy, in non-committal tones.

"Your roads are in fine shape, almost perfect," said the missionary, sparring for an opening.

"Bad, infernally bad," answered the road monkey.

"Like the job?" asked the preacher to encourage conversation.

"Yes, the way the damned like their lodgings," burst out Old Grouchy. "But what is it to you whether I like it or not? You can't change it."

Before the preacher could make reply the little dog came out of the woods, where he had been in pursuit of a pine squirrel, and came to the minister for attention. It was a dog of many breeds, but the road monkey's eyes fell upon it lovingly and the minister saw the look.

"A good friend of yours, I suppose," said the Sky Pilot.

"The only friend I have," and the tone was soft and reflective.

The minister knew that he had found the opening to the old man's heart and began to talk of his own dog team, the faithfulness and intelligence of the animals and the companionship they freely gave. Old Grouchy joined in the conversation and discussed with freedom the love he felt for the dumb creatures. From this they drifted to matters more personal until the whole story of the man's life was narrated and the cause of his cynicism was bared.

It was a story of startling disappointment, of a home wrecked through unfaithfulness and broken trust. No man could hear the story and remain unsympathetic. "No wonder you see the world darkened," said the preacher; "if I had your experience I might feel as you do today."

The missionary talked to the man and tried to lead him to the bright paths of peace, but nothing appealed to the sad soul of the lonely man. The gospel gave him no hope, the sun was set, and all was covered with the curtains of night. God to him was dead and in all the world the only love he knew was the dumb affection of the forlorn yellow dog.

When Mr. Higgins went back to that camp in later days the road monkey would listen attentively to the presentation of the loving Christ and seemed to wonder if it were possible that God could care for him.

"Sing, brother," said the missionary. But the old man only shook his head. He would not sing. Nay! he could not. His heart strings were withered; melody had left him through the unfaithfulness of woman. He had passed into the starless night where no glimmer of hope entered, and in his solitude he caressed his little dog and perhaps wondered if the great God cared, if any being was interested in him besides the faithful little animal. The Rev. Frank Higgins was preparing for the evening service. He had rolled the barrel into the center of the room where it was to do duty as a pulpit. The proprietor of the camp came in and seeing the barrel, but not knowing its intended purpose, appropriated it as a seat. Not wishing to disturb the proprietor, Mr. Higgins stood by his side and conducted the service.

The place was well filled and the interest was intense. The men entered heartily into the singing, and when the sermon came it was full of keen home thrusts. The errors of the lumberjacks were pointed out with freedom and a remedy forced with conviction. The proprietor sitting on the pulpit enjoyed the straightforward way in which the preacher dealt with the lumberjacks, and at every telling shot heartily applauded and added some words of encouragement to the speaker.

"Now you're getting them, Higgins; keep the chips a-flying. Give them another whirl, Pilot; you have them where the hide is thin." With these and other suggestions he added his encouragement.

It happened that while the proprietor was a man whose record as a logger was one of the best in the state, being able to get out his logs where others would fail, yet his morals were far below his business reputation. His son was following in his footsteps, much to the sorrow of the mother and the disgust of the father.

After the proprietor had applauded several times and given his advice as to the style of preaching suited to the lumberjacks, Mr. Higgins turned his guns on the proprietors, contractors and foremen for the example some of them set before the men.

"I do not wonder that you lumberjacks live shameless lives, for the leaders of the work often set you the worst examples. Some of the proprietors, contractors and bosses are to be found drinking, gambling and carousing in the villages and towns, and they who should lead you into better things are only examples of riot and immorality. They are your examples and you are responding to them."

The proprietor sat silent.

"Why don't you applaud that sentiment also?" asked the preacher of the proprietor. "It's just as true as the others." When Mr. Higgins went into the office that night the proprietor was there, and as he entered the logger looked up and said: "That was pretty blank plain, Pilot."

"I always preach so the audience will understand me," replied the minister.

"But you needn't have shouted the whole blank thing before the crowd," returned the proprietor.

"I didn't tell them a thing but what they already knew, Mr. Blank. The boys know how you are living and that your son is following pretty close in your footsteps. It's time to call a halt, for you can't be proud of the example you're setting."

Before the missionary left the camp the proprietor came and thanked him for not only fearlessly preaching to the lumberjacks but for being equally ready to preach to the lumber kings.

While many refuse the word of life, yet the seed sown often springs up in later days to show that a dormant seed may yet come to fruitage.

One who had often attended the services came to no decision as the result of the sowing. Shortly afterwards he was seriously hurt and carried to the hospital. Mr. Higgins visited him and tried to bring him to a decision. Since there was no hope of recovery he was carried to his Canadian home to die among his kinsmen. There in the long days of pain and waiting the seed scattered in the meetings began to spring and come to full fruitage, for the dying man passed over the river lighted by the presence of one who said, "I am the light of the world."

While the Sky Pilot preached in a certain camp there was a wondrous quiet, for the Spirit of God brooded above the place, and his presence always brings life. No one was surprised when a woodsman walked up to the preacher and said, "Mr. Higgins, I want you to pray for me right now."

The sermon closed without another word and prayer was offered for the desiring man who had boldly taken a stand for righteousness. When the minister had closed his prayer the man said, "I want to pray for myself," and in presence of the watching camp the man made his petition for pardon and received it. Turning to his workmates he told them that this was the end of his old life and its works and that in the future he would work for Christ as well as trust him.

After supper was over the next evening the men of the camp received a new idea of Christian service. The convert of the previous night took out his violin and began to play the favorite of the camps—"Jesus Lover of My Soul." The lumberjacks listened and their interest turned to astonishment when the convert drew out a Bible and began to read a chapter to the crowd. But if they were astonished at the reading they were dumbfounded when he announced that he was going to give them a talk. He had learned the principles of scripture in his youth and now he gave the boys the old gospel which was doubly precious to him because of his recent experience.

Through the winter he continued to hold meetings with the men, and in all the north woods there was no prouder camp, for it claimed to be the only one having a settled pastor. When Mr. Higgins returned to the camp he found the men happy in the new condition, stimulated with the encouragement the convert had given them and more ready to learn of the transforming power of the Divine Man of Galilee.

"The woods were God's first temples," and in the green solitudes, under the unchanging pines, men are worshiping.