Muscular Christianity has a rather far-off sound in this matter-of-fact age where indifference is present and many a church is under the blight of apathy. But on the part of the logging camp missionary there is no apathy. His ministry is twofold: it is spiritual and muscular.

Let some one who is more interested in the dead past write the story of the rough but earnest Crusaders, who fought in the name of the gentle Christ with flesh-piercing spear and blood-letting sword. That is a tale, foreign, distant and past; the narrative I bring is native, near and present. This warfare is not with the weapons which are the product of the fire and anvil, yet it is muscular and strenuous; its purpose is not death, but life, and its spirit is love. The banner alone is the same—the Sign of the Cross. Physical fitness of no common order is required of the missionary of the forest. In our northern pineries strength of limb, endurance and hardiness are the necessary capital of the workers. When the frolicsome winds drive the mercury thirty or forty degrees below zero and hold it in that low retreat for days, the men who work under the open sky must be vigorous to stand the taunts of the north wind and strong to resist the fettering cold. The pineries is no place for weaklings, either as pastor or logger. Brawn is an asset not despised, muscle is honored, and endurance is the ideal of the lumberjack.

The city pastor finds that head and heart predominate in his work for souls; the missionary of the logging camps soon realizes that the first essential is bodily excellency—heart and head are secondary in the estimation of the woodsmen. They pity a weakling, they respect a strong man. But to strength must be added devotion if the man who comes as Christ's messenger is to win. They will willingly listen to the rough address of a rough and ready man who can fell a tree with precision and ease; the argument of the man who is scientific of fist and nimble of leg is sure of a ready reception.

It follows that the same kind of ministry we look for in the city is not asked for in the camps. The object of the work is the same—the souls of men—but the methods and means are more varied. The man of tact soon sees that the body can be used to do a glorious work for the King, and that he who is fearful of manual exercise cannot be a winning ambassador for his Master.

Physical Christianity sounds like a story of the middle ages, but this form of godliness is being used successfully to point men to Christ in the great north woods. It is not forcing men to accept his teaching, but doing with physical might for him whatever the hands find to do.

Of more value than discussion will be the narrative, and so I present to the reader a few plain tales of the lights and shadows, the labors and losses in the life of the missionary who spends his all for the men who are far from civilization, far from Christ, lonely, wayward, rough, but still our brothers for whom our Master died. The village was little more than a collection of rude shacks. In its confines two hundred people made their homes. Even in the logging district one would search long for a place more under the influence of open sin. The camps were near and the village traffic was evil—almost exclusively evil. Nine saloons were the ornaments of the place and the large brothel occupied a prominent place in the social life. There was little in the village to commend, much to condemn. Its influence was vicious and its efforts were to impoverish the campmen.

It was nearing the spring of 1905. The camps would soon break up for the winter, and the Rev. Frank E. Higgins, while making his rounds, found himself, after nightfall, in the village described above. The lunchroom was in the rear of a saloon and there the missionary took his belated meal. Many drinking lumberjacks were at the bar and soon they crowded around the minister with invitations to drink with them.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, boys; if my dog will drink the stuff you fellows are imbibing I'll drink with you," said Mr. Higgins.

He called his dog to him, and at his command Bess placed her front feet on the bar, but on smelling the beverage turned away.

"Can't do it, boys; I'd hate to set a bad example to my dog. You had better follow her lead. She has good sense, as you all know."

The men enjoyed the incident, and the tired preacher went to his room. The sleeping place was over the barroom, but in spite of the carousing, he was soon asleep.

Shortly after midnight the minister was awakened by a loud noise in the room below. The sound of breaking glass and furniture, the curses and cries of men rang loudly through the house. A fight was in progress and it was evident to the missionary that it was more than a trivial affair. Hastily he drew on some clothing and rushed down the stairway which opened into the barroom.

In the middle of the saloon stood F——, a foreman from a nearby camp. He was crazed with liquor and his powerful frame shook with the excitement of the contest. Over his head he held a heavy barroom chair, and lying near him were three men whom he had felled with the ready weapon. The bartender had taken refuge under the counter and outside of the open door were four lumberjacks who had fled into the cold, but now inviting, street. F—— was in possession of the field and the chair was both a weapon and a banner of victory.

"Canada against the world! The Scotch and nae ithers!" cried the drunken logger in delight as he viewed the vanquished.

Rushing in, Mr. Higgins grabbed the foreman. "F——, think what you're doing, old man. Do you want to kill some one?"

"A Hooligan struck me. Think of a Canadian being struck by a Hooligan! Its mair than flesh an' bluid can stan'," replied the foreman as he menacingly moved in the direction of the door where the enemy had retreated.

"You can't afford to become a murderer because a man lost his temper," said the preacher. "Put down that chair and show that you can control yourself, even if others can't."

Placing the chair on the floor, F—— watched Mr. Higgins assist the others to their feet, but the men in the street did not venture into the room until the preacher had led F—— up stairs.

The Sky Pilot took the foreman to his room, and when he saw him soundly sleeping, crept in beside him and soon was lost to the day's tasks and disturbances. But the missionary's sleep was not destined to be undisturbed, for soon drunken oaths, the shriek of a terrified woman and the heavy blows of an ax falling on a door made the preacher rush from his bed into the hall, where he found the proprietor of the place trying to break into his wife's room.

During the previous afternoon the proprietor's wife had learned that her husband was in a disreputable place and had gone to the brothel to persuade him to accompany her home. Her efforts were unavailing and he remained there drinking and carousing until midnight. When he returned home under the influence of liquor, his offended dignity sought retaliation in the murder of his wife.

With the assistance of the bartender, who by this time had gotten over his previous fright, Mr. Higgins disarmed the drunken proprietor and led him into another room, where the missionary remained with him until sleep held him fast.

The next day was the Sabbath. When the missionary had finished his breakfast he placed his phonograph on the table of the roulette wheel and started "Rock of Ages." The crowd of loungers had increased to a considerable number by the time several selections had been played, and when the song, "Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight," came to a close, it was in a receptive mood. Portions of the Old Book were read and a heart to heart talk followed.

The proprietor refused to serve any drinks while this strange service was being held, and at the close of the meeting he asked the minister to remember him in prayer.

Shortly after the affair in the saloon the Sky Pilot was in the camp where F—— was foreman. It was the time when the annual offering was to be given for the support of the mission work. Mr. Higgins arrived at the hour of the evening meal and learned that the Sisters of Charity had been in the camp at noon soliciting for the hospital work. When the intelligence came to him he decided to defer his request for an offering and visit the camp a few days later.

After service Mr. Higgins said to the men: "It was my intention to ask you to contribute to this work tonight, but since the Sisters have canvassed the camp today we will let it go until my next visit." The preacher had scarcely finished the announcement when F——, the foreman, sprang to his feet.

"Sit doon, Pilot," he said. "You dinna need to ask ony collection in this shanty. We ken a guid thing an' are willin' to pay for't. I'll tak' up the collection, although it's a new job to me. Shell oot, lads; remember the Lord and F—— love a cheerfu' giver."

When F—— had completed his self-imposed task he handed the missionary forty-seven dollars and fifty cents.

There is persuasiveness in a well-rounded muscular development. Some people are impervious to argument and some to courtesy, but few will fail to respond to the persuasiveness of a strong man with a mighty arm. Now I am not attempting to prove that this is best, nor would I care even to leave that intimation, but I remember the days when the rod properly applied was far more productive of good than all the homilies—in fact, the homilies were heard only because of the birch that, like Damocles' sword, was ever waiting to fall. But this is not autobiography. Some men remain children, and only the potentials that produced results in childhood will aid to fruitage in their manhood. Corporal punishment was effective for good then, and if you read the next incident you will realize that it has its force after they have passed through the vicissitudes of youth and have attained the physical weight of manhood.

The bunkhouse meeting was in full swing. The singing was hearty, strong and free. When the lumberjacks wish to sing they produce a volume that is inspiring in spite of discords. Well, these men in Parker's Camp felt the spirit of song—but not all of them. An undertone of discontent came from a group of Frenchmen who sat together at the end of the shack. They did not relish the Protestant religion and intended to show their indigestion. The majority of the camp was in harmony with the preacher, but a small minority can easily turn peace into turmoil.

As the service progressed the opposition grew louder and remarks came freely from the French end of the house. Mr. Higgins went to the disturbers while the rest were singing and requested them to allow the others to enjoy the service. A second time the preacher solicited their sympathy and all went well until the address began. As the missionary proceeded in his message the rumble of the disturbers grew in volume until the address could not be heard. Patience was no longer a virtue, but an assistant to evil. Rolling up his sleeves, for he was preaching with his coat off, the minister left his barrel pulpit and visited the Frenchmen, not as an angel of mercy, but as a son of Mars. Taking a position that could not be misunderstood, he addressed them:

"You pea soup eaters will do one of two things," said the brawny evangelist, "you are going to listen to the gospel or take a thrashing. Speak up, which do you want?"

"Throw them through the roof, Pilot, we'll see fair play," cried a sympathizer.

"Take them one at a time, they won't last long," came from another. "Give them both the thrashing and the preaching," said the swamper. "You've got to puncture the hide of that outfit to get any decency into their heads."

Then came a deep silence. Only the winter wind outside and the roar of the stove within were heard. During the quiet the Frenchmen carefully viewed this muscular exponent of Christianity. On the preacher's arms stood the muscles in rounded hills and in his face was depicted determination and fearlessness. The examination was satisfactory; it was easy to decide in favor of a gospel message under such circumstances. The eyes of the Frenchmen dropped and the preacher had won.

"I would rather preach anyway," said the minister as he walked back to the barrel and took up the interrupted discourse.

Among the firm friends of the Sky Pilot that group of Frenchmen are now to be found. The coatless figure, burning with righteous indignation, powerful in right and backed with physical prowess, won the admiration of the disturbers. Conviction and fearlessness always open a way for him who is desirous of carrying the Cross. Even the opponents learn the lesson of respect.

On every fruit-bearing tree the worthless fruit clings with the good and mellow. Every effort is not a success, as all can testify. Some seed falls by the wayside and is trodden down. Again, the sower is not even allowed to sow by the wayside. The devil is not dead and his agents are faithful to their commander. As long as man is sinful, opposition will show itself, but the darkness of night makes the day more resplendent by contrast.

In the month of January, 1906, our missionary procured a letter of introduction from the proprietor of a camp near Kelliher, Minnesota to the foreman in charge. The letter gave Mr. Higgins the privilege of holding service in the bunkhouse. Armed with this letter, and accompanied by Mr. F.E. Davis, one of the camp workers, Mr. Higgins entered the camp.

On arriving they went immediately to the office and left their personal effects and a box of literature, and then proceeded to find the foreman in order to present their credentials. Near the cookshed they came across a burly Irishman who immediately bristled up and without waiting for any greeting began:

"Are you Higgins?"

"I am," answered the missionary. "Is this—"

"I am G—," he interrupted.

"I was looking for you Mr. G—. I have a letter of introduction from the proprietor," said the missionary, at the same time producing the letter.

"I don't care a d—n if you have a letter from God Almighty," profanely burst out the push; "you can't preach in this camp. Get your things out of the office blank quick and get to Hades out of these works. I won't have any blank preachers among my men."

Mr. Higgins looked at the profane man and quietly answered: "I am in no haste about leaving, Mr. G—, in fact this camp has an added interest since I met you."

"Get out, or I'll throw you to Hades out of here," said the wrathy foreman.

"Not so hasty, Mr. G—," said the Sky Pilot. "I should be present during the disturbances and some one might get hurt. Is your hospital ticket good?"

While the minister looked at the cursing foreman he felt a strong desire to enforce a lesson in common courtesy,—that part of the foreman's education having evidently been neglected. But he thought, if I should do this physical duty the lumberjacks who are my friends will refuse to work for the foreman and the proprietor's kindness will be repaid with loss. He therefore decided to forego the privilege of improving the foreman's manner's, and for the proprietor's sake to say nothing that would come to the ears of the lumberjacks.

When the missionaries left the camp Mr. G— was not through with the incident, for the foreman's remarks had been overheard by some of the men and were soon the common property of the camp. The next day the foreman went into the blacksmith shop, and not being over civil to the vulcan in charge, was suddenly seized, dragged over the anvil and kicked out into the snow by the wrathy smith. As G— was gathering himself up, the man of metals gave him an extra kick and accompanied it with this enlightening remark:

"There, blast your Hades seared hide, is an extra one for the glad hand you gave the Sky Pilot yesterday. You son of the nameless, I'll teach you how to treat your betters and make your blank soul respect the clergy."

As a result of the incident a number of the men quit the camp, refusing to work for a "push who ain't got no decency."

Men who serve the Master will at the same time serve men. It seems but proper to demand of the Christian that he prove his profession by his love of humanity. The religion that is only preached meets few demands, the religion that is lived satisfies human wants. Jesus Christ bore a relation of helpfulness to the burdened world; the disciples of the Nazarene cannot do less than follow the example of the man loving Master. At least, this is the expectancy of the men, they simply take the Christian at his word. Mr. Higgins has instanced this many times, for his parishioners feel that when a man is needed the Christian should be the first to respond.

"Pilot," said a lumberjack to Mr. Higgins, "I've got a friend in the saloon over yonder and the drunken fool is blowing his stake as fast as he can throw it over the bar. I ain't able to get him out and the bar tender would give me a hunch to get out myself if I tried. Will you help me?"

"Come on," said the preacher. "We'll see what we can do together."

As they entered the barroom the woodsman pointed out his friend. Paddy was in that hilarious state of intoxication where liberality knows no bounds. He staggered up to the bar and in drunken happiness cried: "Here, bung swater, set up to the house. Hades while the dough lasts. Turn the spigot and give us a beer bath."

Paddy generously emptied his pockets on the metal counter and a roll of bills and a handful of silver lay before the crowd.

The bar tender reached for the cash to sweep it into the till, but he was not quick enough, for the large hand of the missionary covered the roll of bills.

"I'll take this for my treat, Paddy," said Mr. Higgins in a quiet but decisive tone.

"No you don't," said the saloon man and he hastened to attack the intruder.

"Stand back," said the preacher. "You're not in my class, and I can't reduce my heft to accommodate a middle weight at this late hour."

The bar tender was full of fight and menacingly waved a weapon at the preacher, and several seconded him in the contest.

"Sit down, you heated fools," cried a campman; "that's the Sky Pilot, and the man that tackles him tackles me and some others."

"Paddy has had more than enough liquor already," continued the preacher, "the silver I left on the bar is more than sufficient to treat the crowd at his expense, so I'll keep the rest as Paddy's banker until he is in a condition to know the value of it." Turning to the saloonman, he said, "You call yourself a man and yet you would take all the winter's earnings of a poor fellow who is not in his right mind. You are a scoundrel or you would have sent this fellow away long ago."

Mr. Higgins and his friend got Paddy on the train and carried him to Bemidji where they put him to bed.

Next morning Paddy wandered into the lobby where the preacher was sitting. "Some one robbed me last night," he began; "they took every cent I had and pinched my hat and coat. What am I goin' to do?"

"Go home. That's what you're going to do," said the preacher with decision. "Nobody robbed you Paddy, nobody needed to. When I met you last night you were throwing your money away faster than they could take it from you. You had already lost your coat and you threw your hat out of the car window on the way here. But we managed to save a little for you, enough to get you back home." The preacher handed him the roll of bills he had saved. It contained forty dollars. Paddy took the advice of the Sky Pilot and left at once for home, never again to appear among his old associates in the pineries. He is the brother of a respected Catholic priest, and comes of a prominent family.

The proverb reads, "A man is known by the company he keeps." In the main the proverb is true, but it is not always applicable. A slum worker differs from his associates; a camp worker is with the worst element of the camps more than with the men who walk straight; he goes where he is needed, and, like the Master, he is a friend of publicans and sinners. But he who lifts another does not lower himself, even if he has to stoop in order to lift. In fact, I doubt if there be even the suggestion of stooping. Although the physical figure implies the act—I rather believe that the good man lifts himself when he extends his hand down to another. Let me tell you a story, one that is well known in the northern woods:

A—— was built for doing things, and looked the part. If you were judging from appearances you would say that he was one of the best, and if you asked for confirmation of your opinion the lumberjack would answer regarding him, "None better in all the north woods,"—a high physical certification.

For some time A—— had been a foreman. His abilities won the admiration of the men and his habits of life made him feared,—it was another case of what whiskey can do with a man.

Once when Mr. Higgins was preaching in A——'s camp, A—— came into the meeting and drunkenly listened to the minister as he pleaded with the men to forsake evil and get right with God. A tense stillness hung over the bunkhouse and all the audience listened in sympathy.

Suddenly another voice broke into the harmony. It was A—— crying in fervid encouragement: "Lace it to them, Higgins, give them hell, old boy, the drunken sons of the nameless need a dose of religion to make them log right."

"Don't notice him, boys," said Mr. Higgins; "that is whiskey that is talking. A—— would be ashamed of that sort of thing if he were sober, but whiskey isn't ashamed of anything."

At the end of Frank Higgins' first year in Bemidji, when the camps were pouring their men into the towns, he happened to visit the little town of Farley, Minnesota. The lumberjacks owned the town. The long drought of winter was turned into a deluge and it was the evident intention of the foresters to consume in a day enough to make up for the enforced abstinence. A stream of coin passed over the bar and a tide of liquor came from the other side.

Near a saloon a laughing crowd watched the antics of a powerful fellow who drunkenly wallowed in the mud. Bewilderingly fluent and ingeniously profane was the man in the gutter, and his drunken comrades raised their laughter of approval at his antics and remarks. Pushing his way through the crowd, Mr. Higgins came upon the object of their mirth—it was A——, the foreman, too drunk to care about or to understand his degradation.

The missionary helped the foolish fellow to his feet and, leaning him against a building for support, scraped the filth from his garments with a shovel.

The father and brother-in-law of A—— were in the village and to them the missionary, took his drunken charge. A—— had been working but a few miles from home but had not visited his people for two years. When the relatives saw their son and brother, at the same time realizing his helplessness in the presence of temptation, they asked the missionary to take him to the Keeley Cure at Minneapolis, two hundred miles away.

Mr. Higgins was not anxious for the task, but he knew that there was a chance for at least a partial reformation, and anything was an improvement on the present way of living. The only way to accomplish the journey with an unwilling patient was to keep the man drunk and get him to the institute while under the influence of his enemy—this was beating the devil with his first lieutenant. So the minister packed his grip with unministerial baggage—whiskey—and patiently waited his train. It took three men to get the logger into the car, and with the beginning of the journey the real troubles of the temperance worker began. On one side was the grip loaded with bottles, on the other a man loaded with whiskey. The only thing that suggested the ministry was the half fare permit, and that was out of sight.

No wonder the conductor smiled when the minister presented his credentials. As the railroader punched the ticket, he said: "Are you on your way to Presbytery with a lay delegate, or are you both bound for a distillery convention?"

The smoking car was crowded with woodsmen on their way to the city. A—— was in fighting trim and only the ever present bottle could keep him from stirring up the crowd. Every few minutes the minister passed him the bottle and it acted like paregoric on a colicky baby. "It was the only time I tended bar all day, and I am not anxious to repeat the experience," said Mr. Higgins.

At Spur 25, A—— was sufficiently sober to recognize a friend who was waiting on the platform, and immediately he cried to the ministerial bar tender, "Here, Sky Pilot, give Kirk a drink. Hand him the glass works and let him sample the cold tea."

Between Farley and Walker the effluvia from bodies long immune to water, the disregard of sanitary requirements, the expectorations and the foul air of the crowded car became unbearable. The missionary felt it very necessary that he should go elsewhere and breathe a cleaner atmosphere, so he called a teamster and installed him as bartender while he went into the day coach to breathe. A——'s father was in the day coach but did not dare to approach his drunken son.

The missionary had not counted all the possible exigencies when he pressed the teamster into service. The substitute bartender had solaced himself with the liquid goods before entering the train, and was soon in a rapturous state from the mixture brought about from imbibing A——'s whiskey. Every time A—— demanded a drink the driver took one himself, and being a frugal soul, drank largely because another was paying the bill. He was a happy jack and expressed himself in song. It was the eighteenth of March, the day after St. Patrick's Day. On the platform at Walker a crowd of Irishmen were lounging, the green ribbons of yesterday's celebration adorning their lapels. The maudlin teamster was a protestant Irishman, and the green streamers aroused in his befuddled mind visions of glorious Londonderry days where the fist played a larger part in religion than it does in Minnesota. Leaning far out the window, until he seemed to balance on his belt buckle, he began the soul stirring melody "Protestant Boys." At least it was soul stirring to the Catholic Irish. At the depot the old scenes of Londonderry were renewed and a blow drove the teamster across the car and jammed him between the seats on the filthy floor. The feet of the Orangeman stuck high in the air, and though the trainmen tried to release him, they could not.

Unaware of what was happening in the next car, the minister was talking with A——'s father when the conductor broke into the conversation.

"Come into the smoker and take care of your parishioners, Mr. Higgins," he said hurriedly, "we can't handle that booze-soaked crew."

When Mr. Higgins entered the car he found that he had two patients that needed his immediate attention.

At Brainerd they changed cars and waited two hours for the Minneapolis train. The minister took his charge into the station. Here A—— gave an exhibition of drunken hilarity that drove out the self-respecting loungers and caused the station master to demand A——'s exit. The streets received the minister and his charge, but after a few improper acts and worse remarks an officer ordered them off the streets.

The only places open to the strollers were the saloons, and the minister led his companion into one of them. The saloonmen, because of the natural results of their business can stand considerable of the unusual, but this woodsman was able to give the denizens of Billingsgate advance instruction in the unprintable and nauseating. Not having lost all sense of the fitness of things, the saloon keeper escorted the woodsman to the door and Mr. Higgins again linked himself to the staggering man.

From one side of the walk to the other the powerful logger dragged the husky preacher, and as they continued through the streets the blasphemy and filth flowed on. It was the expected that happened; a representative of law and order threatened to lock up both pedestrians in the city jail—for the logger dragged the minister in his zig-zag course and both appeared drunken. But in spite of the rough clothes, the policeman soon recognized the Sky Pilot and placed the city jail at his disposal while waiting for the south bound train.

When A—— realized he was in the police station his temper suddenly arose and he rushed with closed fist at his companion. Mr. Higgins anticipated the attack and deftly stepped aside. The heavy blow fell on the panel of the station door, and a split panel and bruised knuckles were the results.

After some hours Minneapolis was reached, a cab took them to the Institute and the worst was over.

The minister and the patient entered the big rest room of the Institute just as the bell signaled the patients to prepare for treatment. The inmates began to remove their coats and to roll up their shirt sleeves so that the treatment could be injected into their arms. The removing of coats pleased A——, for it savored of a fight and he began to prepare for a conflict. Hastily he removed his coat and with raised guard and closed fist staggeringly advanced towards the coatless men who had fallen into line to march past the doctor. Instead of the anticipated fight, A—— received his first treatment,—the course in the Keeley Cure had begun.

Several years have passed since the above incident, but A—— is still a sober man. Respected for his ability, honored by those who employ him, he stands high in the confidence of one of the largest lumber companies, and large interests are in his hands. While not a professing Christian, yet he is a strong advocate of temperance, for, having known the degradation of drink, he now appreciates the virtue of sobriety.

Quebec, with its French population, raises many loyal Catholic sons. The training of the province does not develop a bias towards Protestantism. Anything savoring of it is distasteful to them, due to centuries of training. When these sons migrate to the woods of Minnesota the inherited and trained prejudice is likely to accompany them. On the above paragraph a story hinges.

In the north woods of Tenstrike worked a French Canadian, whom, for obvious reasons as well as convenience, we will call "Old Quebec." Now, "Old Quebec" was neither a scholar nor a fool. He knew a few things, and the many things of which he knew nothing did not disturb his mental bias or unsettle his decision. He was a man of likes and dislikes and he gave his whole strength to either; he never asked himself whether his likes or dislikes were reasonable, he was simply satisfied to be out-and-out in opposition or comradeship. What he hated he cursed; what he respected he was always on hand to assist. Well, he cursed the Sky Pilot whenever he saw him.

"Old Quebec" had no love for religion of any kind, but if a man wished to profess any spiritual relationship, Quebec was so trained that only Catholicism was acceptable to him. Therefore, when the Rev. Frank E. Higgins came to the camp in which Old Quebec worked the Frenchman thought him a non-entity because he was religious and a fool because he was not a Catholic. If you had asked Old Quebec, "Aren't you prejudiced?" he would have laughed, probably have sworn you out of countenance, and in his blasphemous way have given you the information, "What I know I know." His answer would have satisfied him and his profanity have settled you.

So, at the meeting, on the missionary's first appearance, Old Quebec did all he could to disturb and interfere. When asked to give the others the privilege of hearing, he replied with a torrent of invective, blasphemy and vulgarity that shocked the ears of every decent man in the camp. Now there are some men whom one can not easily eject. Old Quebec was probably one of these, at least, the missionary decided that discretion was the better part of valor. For once there were two speakers at the meeting, and Mr. Higgins, being more accustomed to public speaking, won out.

Few men could equal Old Quebec with the peavy. When there were logs to sack in the shallows of the river he was the man to keep the stuff from jamming, or when they jammed, to find the key log and break the obstruction. He was strong as hammered steel and bore himself as the king of the crew. He satisfied himself by cursing the missionary on all occasions, and the missionary was satisfied to talk him to a stand still. True, the missionary had tried to win the man, but Old Quebec was unapproachable.

One Sunday night the missionary went to a hotel in Tenstrike and after spending some time in conversation with the loungers, he started for the barn to see if his dog team was comfortable for the night. On the way to the barn he passed the ice house, before which lay several cakes of ice. As he passed between the cakes the missionary stumbled over the body of a man. The body was motionless and cold, and although he felt for evidence of life he could discover none. Rushing into the hotel saloon, the preacher called for assistance. Old Quebec was at the bar drinking.

"Come on, Quebec," cried Mr. Higgins, "get the lantern and help me with a dead or dying man."

Procuring a lantern, the missionary and the Frenchman hurried into the yard.

"Take hold of his feet, Quebec," said the preacher as he put his arms around the cold body, but Old Quebec, true to his superstition, refused to touch what was apparently a dead body.

The missionary got the body on his back, Quebec held the lantern, and the body was carried into the saloon. Fortunately the man was not dead, but was drunk and frozen, and, had it not been for the timely aid would soon have succumbed. In the saloon the missionary worked over the helpless man until consciousness returned.

"Take care of him," said the minister to the hotel man, "for I must leave early. Charge the expense to me."

Old Quebec heard the remark.

In the course of a few days the Sky Pilot visited the camp in which Old Quebec worked. The service began, but no word from the old man, although he sat in a prominent place.

"I suppose Quebec's waiting till the preaching commences," whispered one of the boys to a neighbor.

The preaching began. Through it all Quebec listened with attention, no sign of interruption came from him.

"What's the matter with Old Quebec?" the minister asked himself, "is the fellow sick, there's so little action in him?"

After the meeting was over the Frenchman beckoned to the preacher. Wonderingly, Mr. Higgins approached him.

"There it is, Pilot," said the Frenchman, extending his hand, "that's yours now. Will you shake it? I've been pretty rough on you. I ain't got much time for religion, but after what I saw that Sunday night in Tenstrike, I'm settled. You're willing to do for us poor fools what we ain't got sense enough to do for ourselves. Anything I can do for you, Pilot, I do. What I know I know. I'm with you."

As strong in his friendship as he was in his hatred is Old Quebec, ever ready to give a helping hand to the missionary, and as a contrast to the past he now feels that he is responsible for the decorum of the camp. Woe be it to the jack who dares to interfere with one of Mr. Higgins' meetings if Old Quebec is present. Once in Bemidji a crowd of lumberjacks was standing on the sidewalk when Old Quebec, who was in the group, saw Mr. Higgins approaching.

"Open up the road for the Pilot," cried Old Quebec, "he's made the sledding easy for many a one of us, so I'll road monkey for him."

(The road monkey is the man who keeps the ice roads clean.)

The old fellow listens now, and others listen at his bidding,—Faith cometh by hearing, so Old Quebec's chances are bettered, for the word is like leaven.

It is not preaching alone that is needed in the solitudes of the forest; even here pastoral work has its place, often a large place. Had the apostle Paul been visiting the lumber camps of Asia Minor when he wished to be all things to all men, or had he just beheld the ancient lumberjacks as they poured into the Athenian bowery after a winter's chopping on the slopes of God forsaken Olympia? Whatever the cause of the thought, it expresses the need of the missionary who would work in the camps. But Paul was himself a missionary, and that explains why he knew the qualities of heart and hand essential to successful work.

Frank Higgins is a pastor, preacher, friend and brother to his heterogeneous flock. Their concerns are his interests and they know that if they need assistance this minister will extend it gladly. The following incident will illustrate this point:

A.M. was a man who had followed the camps for years. In his years of logging he had acquired a little property, was happily married, and several children came to lighten his home. His wages were above his expenditures and he was making financial progress. But if you wish to introduce a change in the even march of progress, introduce drink. This is what A. did.

It was then the old, old story of retrogression through alcohol. The property he prized as the fruit of industry gradually passed into other hands and a darker side of life was seen, in which the woodsman, his wife and children were all involved. The saloons handled his wages and a respected man sank into the maw of appetite.

In one of the saloons the Rev. F.E. Higgins found the rum-soaked Scotchman on the verge of delirium tremens. The missionary took the helpless man to his home in the forest and began to nurse him back to health and sobriety. Two days and nights he sat beside the bed until the drunken visions passed and reason began to return.

While the missionary was attending his self-assumed patient he gathered every piece of the man's clothing into a bundle and sent them over to the home of a neighbor. Not a single garment belonging to the man was left in the house. It was a course of heroic treatment that was in store for the patient.

When M. began to regain his reason he was besides himself for liquor, but there was none to be had. Leaping from the bed he sought in all parts of the house for his clothing so he could return to the saloons and quench the consuming thirst, but no successful find rewarded his diligence. He begged for his clothing, but the man who sat beside his bed was deaf to entreaty. It was a seige in which the besieged could not even claim the primitive fig leaf. If the watcher had not restrained him he would have rushed out of the house, but the man who had sent his clothes away never relaxed his vigilance The house was a prison.

The hours passed and the man became milder. The Sky Pilot drew out memories of better days; the long-closed chambers of memory slowly opened, and with the return came the recollections of the days when freedom crowned the life and evil habits were as yet unborn. Such remembrances create the desire to reproduce again the life of freedom. While M. was sighing for the past joys, Mr. Higgins was pointing him to the One who said, "I came that ye might have life, and have it more abundantly." At last in the shadow of the sin absorbing Cross the brawny preacher and weakened slave knelt side by side. To him who proclaimed liberty to the captive and to them that are bound they prayed, and when they arose two freemen clasped hands in friendship and Christian fellowship.

M. realized that while he was free, yet sin had weakened him, so he gathered his belongings together and with his family left the place of his temptation and fall and emigrated to Manitoba. While I write, a letter is on my desk. It is from M.'s wife telling of his later life. She who wrote the letter was a Catholic, but she tells of the God-given strength that came to M., how during the years since his conversion he had lived under the sustaining grace of Christ. "Both my husband and son united with the Presbyterian Church here, and when at last they brought the father from a northern camp, bruised and dying, his faith held fast to the Savior who took him from the pit."