In the camps the missionary is largely a preacher; in the lumber towns the work he must do is cut to no design or pattern. One might call it pastoral work, and in a free use of the term it is, but I know of no pastor who is doing work of this nature unless it be the men in the city missions. It is work which consists largely of the unexpected—changing a chance circumstance into Christian activity.

The villages and towns have followed the railways, bringing in the many alluring vices of civilization. Through the approaches of vice the campmen have been demoralized, their lives made almost worthless, and their characters seared with the brand of iniquity. The contractors find it a task to obtain suitable men for their crews, for the saloon and its concomitant evils have made many of the lumberjacks irresponsible and incapable. The men will leave their work on the least provocation to spend a few days in debauchery. Often a contractor finds himself, in the parlance of the camps, "with one crew coming to camp, another working, and another leaving camp." This means loss on the part of the men and inability on the part of the contractor to deliver his contract of logs. As one contractor expressed it: "The jacks work until their hides begin to crack, then follow their tongues to the nearest irrigation plant, tank up until the stake is blown, then mosey to a camp to dry out again." The village and town saloons are largely the cause of this. The rum shops, and worse, are ever on the lookout for the boys, and he who escapes the clutches of the godless crowd must indeed be immune to temptation.

Mr. Higgins was in a hotel in Tenstrike, Minnesota, when a lumberjack who had finished his winter's work came into the house to wait for the train going south. Immediately the saloon men and gamblers were after him but he resisted and left the village with his check uncashed. The gamblers learned that he was going to Bemidji so they wired to the gamblers of that place to meet him. When the woodsman left the train he was hailed by a waiting "toot." The "toot" was genial, gracious, sympathetic, and to cement the friendship, the one must treat and the other do likewise. While they drank the attendant at the wheel made music with the roulette ball and soon in response to the siren's singing the lumberjack was seated at the wheel where he lost in a few hours the wages it had taken him months to earn. When he left the place he was drunken, penniless, forsaken.

The writer and Frank Higgins were going through a gambling den in one of the northern towns. At the roulette wheel sat a young traveling man playing his chips with liberal hand. Merrily the ivory rattled in the groove and settled in the space. Now he lost, now he won. Joy or anguish was on his face as he played to increase his winnings or retrieve his losses. It was interesting to watch the play of the man's passions as expressed in his countenance. Hour after hour the game dragged on. We visited other resorts of the lumberjack and returned at midnight, but the traveling man was still at the wheel. Hope still lingered, but from the haggard, drawn expression of his face we could tell that he had lost heavily. It was 1:30 A.M., when the game ended and the man was without a cent. Mr. Higgins spoke to him in the lobby of the hotel. Despair was depicted on the man's face. Worn with anxiety, he staggered like one under the power of liquor, although not a drop had passed his lips, and the wild look of his eyes suggested the haunted mien of one who might attempt his own life.

When Mr. Higgins spoke to him, he replied:

"I am an embezzler tonight. I have spent all my own money and all the money with which my employer had trusted me. I deserve the penitentiary."

Continuing, he told us his story. He was trained to a profession but the confinement of his vocation brought on ill health and he had begun to travel for a well known firm. He was the only child of respectable parents, and in his present wretchedness he thought of the disappointment and grief coming to these aged ones as a result of his folly. I could not but admire the handsome fellow, foolish though he was, for his apparent love for his home. "I have disgraced them," he said in anguish, "and when they hear of my dishonesty it will kill them."

He went to the desk and wrote a letter to the firm telling them of his fall and how he had lost their money in gambling. When he was about to mail the letter Mr. Higgins went to him again and tried to induce him to go to bed.

"No," he said, "I could not sleep, and if I could, I have no money to pay for a room. I have been dishonest enough already without wronging the proprietor."

"Clerk, give him a room and charge it to me," said Mr. Higgins, taking the matter into his own hands. "Now, brother, you go to bed and stay there until I call you, and we'll see what we can do. Don't mail that letter. Perhaps it won't be necessary in the morning."

He went to breakfast with us. After the meal the missionary went out to interview the town and county officials. The result of the conference was that the gambler turned over to the traveling man the amount of money embezzled and took his note for the same. The traveling man pledged his word never to gamble again and went on his way sadder, and we hope wiser, because of the experience.

The same night on which the above incident occurred, we entered a palatial saloon and gambling place and found but few men present, for it was a season when most of the men were in camp after spending the Christmas holidays in town. We entered into conversation with the proprietor of the place.

"Things are pretty quiet," said Mr. Higgins, "I suppose you are not making expenses just now?"

"Hardly," answered the proprietor, "but I needn't worry, it will come in later." He nodded to the camps west of town, "All the boys are working."

This is the attitude of these keepers. They consider the earnings of the lumberjack as their legitimate spoil and part of their yearly income.

The wife of one of the saloon proprietors, overhearing a remark concerning her jewels and apparel, said:

"I can afford to wear rich clothing. My husband has about a thousand men working for him in the woods." The meaning was obvious: that these men would spend their earnings in the saloon, at the gaming table, and in the retreats connected with her husband's establishment.

The brazen effrontery of those engaged in this business is indescribable. The flesh and blood of men is to be lowered to the level of the brutes, appetites of lust are to be satisfied, passions of evil are to be encouraged, and no shade of shame is to be found on the countenances of this depraving element. Where money is to be had the souls of men are not to be considered. Human misery is nothing. There is money in the damning business—then damn the soul and get the money is the policy.

An extensive self-satisfaction, a mantle of self-righteousness, clothes the men of this vocation.

"Bad? Of course it's a bad business," said one, "but if we don't sell the stuff some one else will. As long as there are fools to buy it we intend to supply them. It's their lookout, not ours."

"But don't you think you are morally responsible for tempting men?" I asked.

"All a man is responsible for is being honest," he replied. "I have been honest in all I have done. No man was ever robbed in my place, and the games are straight. I may go to hell when I am through here, but my job will be shoveling coal to make it hotter for the hypocrites who profess to be honest and then steal when they get the chance."

They talked freely of their business and one gambler had the courage to make this assertion:

"There isn't a more honest set of men in the country than the professional gamblers. They are all right, but the associations are bad."

The above may be a description of some gamblers, but not of all, for it is well known that the games are often crooked and by mechanical devices are made a sure thing for the house.

In one of the range towns a cruiser entered a gambler's place with several thousand dollars in his possession. It was not long before he had lost all. Satisfying himself that the game was not "on the square," he drew his gun and shot up both the gambler and the wheel, took his money from the till and left the place. The gambler was maimed for life.

The saloons and gambling places are palatial and attractive. They are fitted with the best the town affords, resplendent with glitter and flash of lights, showy woodwork and decorated walls. Courtesy and attention await the victims, for an army of men is ready to respond to any desire the lumberjacks may express, no matter how low. Everything is designed to allure. No wonder the men who have known only the discomforts of the camps, with their hard, grinding labor and unaesthetic surroundings, are easily caught in the net that is spread at their feet.

Because of this lawless element so common in the lumber towns, and the unrestrained ways in which almost all of the towns are run, the "open" policy being the common one, there is work for the camp missionary to do. The Rev. Frank Higgins goes into the saloons to find the stray sheep. His errands of mercy have led him into hundreds of dram shops and gambling places.

The writer was with him in one of the towns and the following incidents are only a part of that day's work of helpfulness:

Having heard from a contractor that one of the boys had been reduced to helplessness through drink, and more than drink, Mr. Higgins started for the saloons and continued his search through many groggeries until at last he found the man. The poor drunken wretch was lying on the floor behind the stove, and the missionary put his strong arms around the besotted being and almost carried him to a lodging place where his needs were supplied.

After that we visited the hospital to call on the camp boys. There he heard of a lumberjack who had been dismissed from the hospital that morning. The man was able to be around but too weak to work, and was penniless. So the second search began and the man was located in the lobby of a cheap hotel. Mr. Higgins went to the proprietor, guaranteed him against loss, and went on his way leaving the lumberjack free from care while regaining his strength. The man had been converted in the camps that winter, but so miserable had been his morals that no one trusted him. That was two years ago; today he is a respected Christian worker.

Later came the assisting of another helpless lumberjack and the day closed with the incident of the gambling traveling man, described in this chapter. It is helpfulness that counts. On the banks of the Galilean lake our Master, who never wearied of doing good, met his disciple Peter and said unto him, "Simon, lovest thou me?"

Peter replied to the question, "Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee." Then the divine lips opened and gave to Peter and to us the end and aim of the Christian's relation to man—"Feed my sheep." If we love our Master, Christian activity in the form of assisting men should be an ever-present result.

In instances like the following the flesh may rebel, but the command still remains:

For three weeks Mike had been on a drunken spree; during the days and nights of debauchery he had not changed his clothes or even washed his hands. This was his condition when Mr. Higgins found him senseless with drink in the "snake room." The missionary took him to a lodging house and bathed the body from which the cleansing water had so long been absent. The man's feet were so swollen that the heavy boots were removed with difficulty and when the socks were taken off the skin came with them. It was no wonder that the effluvium drove the minister from the room. It was a hard task, against which the flesh rebelled, but the Master gave the command, "Feed my sheep," and here was one who needed attention. Tenderly the Sky Pilot watched over the poor fellow, supplying his needs until a few days later he was able to return to the camp. The man thus helped had been educated for the Catholic priesthood and drink had ruined him.

Actions such as these may not result in the great end of conversion, but they do result in aiding the cause of Christ, for the men see in the missionary the spirit of the helpful Master.

Many times during the period of Mr. Higgins' residence at Bemidji, Mrs. Higgins was awakened at night by some poor, spent lumberjack who came to the Sky Pilot's home to ask for assistance. Although she was alone, Mr. Higgins being in the camps, she would arise and feed the hungry man and then direct him to some place where he could spend the night.

"Who is that man?" asked a stranger who had been watching Mr. Higgins as he went among the lumberjacks in the village street.

"That's the Lumberjack Sky Pilot, a fellow who never turned a lumberjack down," said the woodsman, and added, "His job is keeping us out of hell." It was crudely expressed, but it represents the sentiment of the boys; with them Christianity must act as well as speak.

When a lumberjack is in trouble with the police he is quite sure to send for Mr. Higgins if the Sky Pilot happens to be in the village. Mr. Higgins is well known in these communities and the officials respect him for the interest he shows in his wayward flock. Many a poor fellow, who awakens from a drunken sleep to find himself in the lockup, wonders if the Sky Pilot is near. The missionary has often pleaded for a light sentence or asked for the case to be annulled.

On one occasion he had been called to the justice court to plead for a woodsman who was charged with being drunk and disorderly. The preacher asked the justice to make the sentence as light as possible and to allow the man to go after giving him a reprimand. The judge was an old friend of the missionary, and at the time of the trial could hardly be called sober. Often he would appear in his office the worse for liquor and dispense justice to the petty offenders. In spite of his failing, the justice had a shrewd sense of right and a great respect for the dignity of his office.

After hearing the plea that Mr. Higgins made for the lumberjack the judge decided to reprimand the man and dismiss the case. He tried to sober himself that the dignity of the law might not suffer through the weakness of the dispenser. He knew that the office called for erect deportment, so the bench straightened his figure and impressively began the reprimand:

"W-whiskey is-s a bad thing. It ma-akes a f-fool of an h-honest man and a d-d—n f-fool of a f-fool. It s-shouldn't be used by l-lumberjacks; t-they belong to the l-last c-class already. It ma-akes a f-fool of every man t-that touches it. If you don't believe it, j-just l-look at the j-judge who has the p-power of sentencing you. See w-what w-whiskey has done for him. B-because of my f-friend Higgins I'll let y-you off this t-time, but remember the j-judge and let w-whiskey alone. Dis-dismissed."

The example was a good one. Even Solomon could not have chosen a more timely illustration, for the judge vividly set forth in his own person what whiskey could do for a man, and the woodsman appreciated the force of the advice. Taking the missionary with him, the lumberjack went to the hotel and drew off his shoes. From the toes of the shoes he extracted a roll of bills containing one hundred and fifty dollars.

"If those blood suckers, who made me drunk, had known I had this, they would have robbed me of it the same as they did of the rest and I wouldn't have a cent now. Well, Pilot, I'm through with it. By God's help, this is the last."

The man went to North Dakota and settled on a farm. Today he is the proud owner of three hundred and twenty acres, and is prospering.

The writer is only trying to pen a brief picture of the field as it presents itself to the missionary. No man can give a full description of the wide privilege that is open to the minister in these places where the lumberjacks congregate. He is required to perform varying duties whether they are related to the minister's calling or not. Often, in the regular ministrations, elements are introduced that suggest the burlesque rather than the solemn services common to the ministry, as the following incident will illustrate:

It was the last day of the drive and the riverpigs were coming into town after their labors on the lakes and rivers. The town was reaping its harvest—at least the saloons and other evils were. As the Rev. Frank E. Higgins walked the street, he was approached by a drunken riverpig.

"Say, Pilot," he began, "one of our crew fell off a log, pulled the hole in after him and is at the coffin shop ready for the boneyard. We uns want him planted like a decent Christian; he wa'n't no squaw man or Indian. See to the trimmings, will you? Do the job up right if you have to buy out every wannigan in town. Are you on, Pilot? When you're ready call for us at Blank's saloon, for we want to go with you to Jim's bunking place."

The driver left him and entered Blank's saloon to report progress to the boys and the minister proceeded to the undertaker's establishment to make the necessary arrangements for the funeral. He ordered a plain pine coffin, and after procuring a dray for a hearse, drove up to Blank's saloon for the boys. Out on the sidewalk the riverpigs came noisily, but when they saw the dray with its burden they stopped abruptly.

"It won't go, Pilot," said the one who had made the arrangements. "This is no jack-pine farmer's funeral; we're no cheap skates. This camp's got money and intends to blow it. See? Give us a run for our money."

Then another rum-soaked riverpig spoke up: "If this was a tin-horn gambler or a bloated saloon-keeper they'd have a hearse and a brass band. Jim's only a riverpig, but he's got to be planted with the frills just the same."

"Get a decent box and hearse and call again, Pilot," they shouted as they backed into the saloon to "keep their hides from cracking."

The funeral procession had a more imposing appearance when it drew up a second time at Blank's saloon. A hearse led the procession and six carriages completed the cortege. By this time the mourners were in a state of intoxication, in which feelings of the sublime and the ridiculous blend without effort.

"This is the way to do it," cried one of the riverpigs as he viewed the hearse and carriages. "Wouldn't Jim be tickled to death if he saw this show and knew that he was the whole blank thing?"

"Say, Pilot," said one whom Mr. Higgins was helping into a carriage, "when we meet Jim later he'll say, 'I'm proud of the way you fellows rid me out of town.'"

"Pretty near two months' wages gone for a box, but what's expense when we're planting Jim," weepingly commented his bunkmate. "He'd 'a done as much for me if I'd 'a give him a show. It's his last blow out anyway."

All the way to the cemetery the mourners talked in the above strain, constantly expressing their satisfaction over the "frills" of the obsequies and the "agony" they were showing for Jim. There was an undertone of complaint because poor drowned Jim did not come forward and personally thank them for the honor they had conferred.

Around the grave the riverpigs staggered and it looked as if more than Jim were going to occupy the grave, for with difficulty they were kept from tumbling in on the corpse. The minister spoke a few words on the uncertainty of life and the need of preparation for eternity, but his brief address was interrupted by the weeping of the drunken attendants and their interjected praises of the dead.

"Speak a good word for Jim, Pilot," said a weeping poleman. "Tell the Lord he could ride a log as well as the best of us."

"Get him through if you can; he wasn't so bad," was the parenthesis of a French-Canadian.

"Good bye, Jim. Our turn's comin'."

The last words were said, the benediction pronounced, and the Sky Pilot turned to leave the cemetery.

"Hold on, there," cried the foreman to the minister. "This is no pauper you buried, but a man whose friends ain't broke."

Taking off his hat, he turned to the crew. "Shell out, you blank sons of the nameless. Jim's been planted O.K., now pay the Sky Pilot for the words he shed over his bones. This is no poor farm job."

The boys shelled out eight dollars and sixty cents for the preacher's services.

The lumberjacks, the homesteaders, the saloon men and the prostitutes claim the missionary as their spiritual friend. It is on him they call when sickness enters their places of abode, and his response is willing and natural. He, as the servant of Christ, is the messenger to the poor and outcast; conditions of life are not considered.

One night, when the Pilot was in a brothel praying with a woman who was passing through the dark waters, the girls of the house crowded around to listen to the prayers and see the end. One of the girls invited him to a private conversation and in it told him the story of her life and the nearness of her death. The physician had informed her that six months was all she could hope to live. "I'll make a short six months of it, for this life is hell, and hell can't be any worse than this," she said.

When the church service closed on the following Sunday evening a messenger was waiting at the Bemidji church to ask him to come at once to the brothel. There he found the girl with whom he had talked. She had taken blue vitrol and this was the end. She had been true to her statement and had made a short six months of it.

The scarlet women turn to him naturally for aid, for they know that he will do all he can to assist in their reformation. His ready sympathy appeals to the outcasts. On a train leaving Blackduck the Sky Pilot was sitting several seats from a woman whose business was unmistakable. The car was filled with men and the scarlet one was known to many in the coach. As the train started she beckoned to the preacher to come and sit beside her. A smile passed over the faces of the wise ones as the missionary took a seat at her side.

But this is the woman's story: She had recognized Mr. Higgins, having seen him when he visited a woman who was dying in a brothel. She was leaving the place of her sin and degradation and did not know which way to turn for help. Would he assist her? She was tired of it all and wanted to live a better life, but knew of no place that would open except such as linked her to the old.

Mr. Higgins knew of a place where the hands of Christians would welcome her and the doors were always open—a Christian refuge in the city of Duluth. Acting on his advice, and assisted by a letter of introduction, she went to the place and today leads a respectable life under the influence of a Savior. Did not the One of Nazareth say unto such, "Go, and sin no more?" Such is the condition that confronts the missionary in the towns and villages near the camps. You may ask, "Are not the spoilers unfriendly, antagonistic to the missionary, since they see that his work is in opposition to theirs?" While they recognize Mr. Higgins as against their nefarious traffic, yet they admire his sincerity and honesty, and prove their respect for him by calling for his services in case of death. They know that their business is under the ban, but they also know that his Christian zeal causes him to love the men while he is still an enemy to the business. In one of the saloons where the writer accompanied Frank Higgins, the saloon man asked us to take a drink of seltzer water.

"I wouldn't take even a drink of water in one of your saloons," replied Mr. Higgins. "You know I am against your whole business."

"We know it," returned the saloon man, "but while you fight us, you do it fair, and although you hurt us, we like you in spite of it."

So without enemies, even among his opponents, he goes from place to place, helping pointing to Christ the lumberjacks, the saloon men, the gamblers and the prostitutes, doing a work few are fitted to do.

The logging camp mission work must of necessity be a disconnected one, and the missionary often does not see the final results of his labors as in a settled pastorate, but the churches reap the benefit of what is accomplished in the camps. Many are brought to Christ who would never have been touched by his saving power if it had not been for the itinerating work of the pineries. The church has too long neglected this large field. Now she is attempting to redeem the time, but the present effort is a small supply for such a large demand.

What is being done to counteract the influence that is thrown around the lumberjacks in the towns? At present there is practically nothing outside the two Bethels at Duluth, to help them, with the exception of a small effort in the way of reading rooms, and I know of only two of these, one in the town of Akeley, Minnesota, and the other in Bemidji, Minnesota. About a year ago Mrs. T.B. Walker and the M.E. Church of Akeley opened a public reading room particularly for the mill hands and employees of the Red River Lumber Company. A little later Mrs. Thomas Shevlin established the Crookston Lumber Company's Club Room in the town of Bemidji. Here the men can congregate and read the papers and magazines provided. But these are lonely exceptions of helpfulness.

The particular need of the lumbertown is a well-equipped, furnished and up-to-date Bethel, for at present the only places open to the lumberjacks are degrading—tending to produce poverty of soul and of purse. The churches of these towns are not strong enough to carry on the work unaided. If the demands are to be met, outside help must be extended. The churches are willing, for the members see the need of Bethels, but their own work calls for larger finances than at present they are able to command.

If there is no place for him to enter except the saloons, then of course we must expect the lumberjack to go where he will find a welcome. Open a place where he can find rest apart from the tentacles of temptation and we shall have done our part, and the forester will do his. A Bethel will be to him a haven towards which his weary feet and hungering social nature will turn with readiness, and in many cases with more readiness than they now turn to the saloons. All men are social creatures; the lumberjack is no exception. He wants to be where his fellows are, to join in their conversations and to take part in their interests, but the saloon is the only place that furnishes a convenient rallying point.

"I don't like the saloon, I don't care to drink," said one, "but all the fellows who are willing to talk to me are there and I must go where they are." To meet the needs of the homeless the Bethel must be substituted for the saloon. Since something is bound to grow, plant a virtue where you uproot a vice.

The Bethel is not an untried theory, but a proven success. Where these institutions have been introduced they have been well patronized and great good has been accomplished. A gentleman of Duluth, Minnesota, told of being on the bowery in that city, and noticed a lumberjack looking at every sign as he passed along. The man wondered if he was having difficulty in finding a saloon where saloons were so numerous. Suddenly the woodsman's face lighted up as he came in sight of a building bearing the sign of "Branch Bethel," and as he entered he seemed to say, "Thank God, this is for me. Here I shall find friends."

Once such rest places are opened they can be made self-supporting, or very nearly so. The lodging part of the plan would pay a good return, an employment agency could be carried on that, in itself, would be very helpful both to the men and employers, and add to the profits, while the missionary and Christian woodsmen would advertise the effort and largely add to its support. But apart from this, the good they would accomplish can only be appreciated by those who know the present surroundings of the campmen in town. When temptation is reduced the increase in virtue is proportionate, where the stimulus to righteousness is given men must respond. To prevent evil is as much a Christian work as saving the fallen, and prevention would give less need for cure.

In the establishment of a system of Bethels in the logging centers there is a fine opening for Christian philanthropy. The men who have made their fortunes through the labors of the woodsmen should be the first to look to the uplifting of the fallen men in their employ. In dollars and cents it would pay the lumber kings, and many of the difficulties now present in the employment of men would be gradually reduced. The lumbermen are becoming interested, but it is a work that calls forth the interest of every lover of humanity.