Читать бесплатно онлайн книгу  James Oliver Curwood, Disciple of the Wilds

автор Hobart Donald Swiggett

“I never put off until tomorrow what

I find hard to-day, for tomorrow rarely

brings the needed skill.”

“What little success I have achieved

has been pounded out with naked fists

through many years of hard work.”

James Oliver Curwood

THE WORKS OF

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD

The Courage of Captain Plum

1908

The Wolf Hunters

1908

The Gold Hunters

1909

The Great Lakes

(

Non-Fiction

)

1909

The Danger Trail

1910

God’s Country—Trail to Happiness

(

Non-Fiction

)

1911

Steele of the Royal Mounted

1911

The Honor of the Big Snows

1911

Flower of the North

1912

Isobel

1913

Kazan

1914

God’s Country and the Woman

1915

The Hunted Woman

1916

Baree, Son of Kazan

1917

Faulkner of the Inland Seas

(

Short Stories

)

1917

The Grizzly King

1917

The Courage of Marge O’Doone

1918

Nomads of the North

1919

The River’s End

1919

The Valley of Silent Men

1920

Back to God’s Country

(

Short Stories

)

1920

The Flaming Forest

1921

The Golden Snare

1921

The Alaskan

1923

The Country Beyond

1923

A Gentleman of Courage

1924

The Ancient Highway

1925

Swift Lightning

1925

The Plains of Abraham

1926

The Black Hunter

1926

Green Timber Completed by Dorthea A. Bryant

1930

Son of the Forests

(

Autobiography

)

1930

The Crippled Lady of Peribonka Completed by Dorthea A. Bryant

1930

James Oliver Curwood

JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD
DISCIPLE OF THE WILDS

A Biography by

H. D. Swiggett

Illustrations by

J. C. Weber

THE PAEBAR COMPANY

Publishers New York

FIRST EDITION

Copyright, 1943

by

THE PAEBAR COMPANY

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without

permission in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer who

may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine

or newspaper. Manufactured in the United States of America.

Dedication

* * * * *

TO MY PARENTS

Mr. & Mrs. William Hobart Swiggett

It is to these two grand people that their son

graciously dedicates this volume.

Had it not been for their understanding and

guiding ways, I could never have attained and

aspired to my goal in this life.

FOREWORD

This is the first biography written on the life of

the famous novelist, adventurer and conservationist,

James Oliver Curwood.

Although Mr. Curwood’s books are still widely read, the

younger generation knows comparatively little about the

life of one of the greatest conservationists of all time

and the man who knew the beautiful Canadian Northwest

better than any other.

It is hoped, therefore, that this volume will refresh the

memory of the past generation and at the same time bring

something new to the minds of our present young people.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

 

The Child Prodigy

Page 15    

CHAPTER TWO

 

A Change Comes About

Page 29    

CHAPTER THREE

 

The Discoverer

Page 44    

CHAPTER FOUR

 

Owosso Schooldays

Page 65    

CHAPTER FIVE

 

College Days

Page 105    

CHAPTER SIX

 

Newspaper Work and Early Writings

Page 114    

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

With the Detroit News-Tribune

Page 122    

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

God’s Country

Page 132    

CHAPTER NINE

 

His Brotherhood

Page 165    

CHAPTER TEN

 

Trail’s End

Page 172

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

James Oliver Curwood

Frontispiece

The following illustrations are contained in

a special section facing page 110

James Oliver Curwood at the Age of Seven

Page I

  Street Scene

Page II

  The Shiawassee River

Page III

  The James Oliver Curwood Castle

Page IV

  The Boat Landing, Curwood Castle

Page V

  Just James Oliver Curwood

Page VI

  Mr. and Mrs. James Oliver Curwood

Page VII

  Curwood, Camping in the Yukon

Page VIII

  Curwood, the Writer, in a Corner of His Gun Room

Page IX

  Curwood Before the Cabin Which He Built in the British Columbia Mountains

Page X

  Curwood, the Woodsman

Page XI

  An Unusual, Striking Picture of Curwood

Page XII

  The Curwood Outfit Going down the Fraser River

Page XIII

  The Cabin on the Au Sable

Page XIV

  The Conservation Clubhouse

Page XIV

  The Home of James Oliver Curwood

Page XV

  Curwood Grave in Oakhill Cemetery

Page XVI

Pen and Ink Sketches by J. C. Weber

Pages 71, 99, 135, 139, 145

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

My greatest obligation in the preparation of JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD: DISCIPLE OF THE WILDS is to Mrs. Ethel Greenwood Curwood, Mr. A. J. Donovan and Mrs. Fred B. Woodard, of Owosso, Mich., who aided me immensely in gathering Mr. Curwood’s volumes, documents, correspondence, photographs, manuscripts and other material without which it would have been impossible to produce this biography.

Thanks and appreciation go out also to the following for help and encouragement:

J. E. Campbell, editor of the Argus-Press, Owosso, Mich.; John S. Deere; Miss Anne Crum; Dr. Harold D. Webb; The Conservation Department of the State of Michigan; the Alumni Catalog Office of the University of Michigan; Doubleday, Doran and Company, of New York City (through whose courtesy many quotations have been made available for publication in this book[1]); C. A. Paquin; Harold Titus; Miss Olive Hormel, of Owosso; R. K. Bresnahan, Postmaster and close friend of Curwood’s, at Roscommon, Mich.; Private George Terashita, Camp Atterbury, Ind.; James B. Hendry, of Sutton’s Bay, Mich.; James Hilton, of Hollywood, Calif.; John Bowen, Staff Writer, Indianapolis Times; Roscommon Civic Club; John Sellers, of Franklin, Ind.; The Franklin Evening Star; Robert Todd; James B. Young, Miss Barbara Swiggett, and to countless others.

1. From “Son of the Forest,” by James Oliver Curwood, copyright, 1930, by Doubleday, Doran and Company, Inc.

I also wish to thank the public and state libraries of Indiana for allowing me the use of material. And it is a pleasure to express appreciation to the kind people of Owosso, Mich., to the students of yesteryear at the University of Michigan, and to the Cree and Chippawayan Indian tribes in Canada, all of whom knew Mr. Curwood intimately.

Harvey Jacobs, a newspaperman, is also remembered for his encouragement and good wishes, and last, but far from least, Walter Winchell, whose seemingly endless supply of energy and driving force helped to push me onward in the task of completing this book.

H. D. Swiggett

Au Sable Study

Franklin, Ind.

JAMES OLIVER

CURWOOD

CHAPTER ONE
 
THE CHILD PRODIGY

Little did the stern though kind-hearted citizens of Owosso, Michigan realize that on the eventful morning of June 12, 1878, the newly-born second son of James Moran and Abigail Griffen Curwood would in time plummet across the literary horizon as the brightest star to have appeared in years. His name was James Oliver Curwood.

From the outset the parents had trouble with their new son, finding it very difficult to please his childish desires. Perhaps ancestry had a bearing here, and if it did, it may all be traced back to the thrilling career of the famous Captain Frederick A. Marrayat, great seaman and popular novelist of yesteryear. He was the lad’s great-uncle.

Jimmie Curwood’s birth took place in the days when Owosso was a small town of some eight thousand population, and trees grew in the center of the streets. It was that era of the nineteenth century when livestock and fowl were free to roam about the city at will, and the horse and buggy played an important part in the development of transportation.

Likewise so it was in that district of Owosso known as West Town. It was in this particular part of town that Jimmie Curwood played so much with his friends (bad though they were), and came forth from bitter schoolboy battles unscathed. Later in life he remarked about West Town in the following manner:

“Had I continued to live in West Town at Owosso, I might have become a genius, but Fate determined a change was advisable when I was six years old.”

The city of Owosso today is far removed from what it was in the childhood days of James Oliver Curwood. Today luxurious homes line the paved streets and tall buildings dot the skyline where once stood low flat ones. Beautiful homes have filled up the empty spaces that were once wide within the city limits, but that same feeling and general atmosphere of drowsiness persists just as it did fifty years ago.

Tall, stately trees line the smooth streets and many automobiles traverse these thoroughfares where once the old horse and buggy moved slowly along.

Today Owosso is in the very heart of the Michigan vacationland. Running practically through the very center of the city is the smooth flowing Shiawassee river, better known as “Sparkling Waters.”

Although Owosso has grown in population from eight to fifteen thousand since Jim Curwood’s birth and boyhood days, her people remain very much the same as they were then.

West Town! A haven for growing children and a headache for grownups. It was here in West Town that Jimmie Curwood grew up and also where he all but drove his very patient parents insane with his juvenile rascality.

With his chum, Charlie Miller, it seems that there was hardly anything the pair of them would not attempt to do. Stealing fruit and playing “hookey” from school were just a few among the many items that always kept the good citizens of Owosso on the constant alert.

They fished, hunted and trapped all along the banks of the Shiawassee, which flows through the city in a great sweeping bend (when they really should have been in school). The river is flanked on either side by some of the most perfectly shaped trees that man has ever looked upon.

Jimmie and Charlie often staged and executed raids upon the fruit stands of old Mike Gazzera. Then as they would run away with their plunder tucked safely beneath their dirty blouses they would glance back and see the grey-headed old Italian shaking his fist at them and threatening them with all types of punishment. Fortunately enough for both, old Mike thought far too much of them and never actually carried out his plans of chastisement.

Probably the one outstanding characteristic of Jim Curwood as a young boy was the fact that he was seldom if ever clean of face or clothing. Try as she might to keep her bewildering offspring clean, his dear old mother seldom succeeded for much more than an hour or two at a time. For immediately after having been thoroughly cleaned up young Jimmie would head for the nearest schoolboy fight or the dirtiest part of West Town and proceed to get himself dirty again. Indeed he was a child prodigy and therein lies the reason for the old saying, which is sad but true: “why mothers get gray.” It is indeed no wonder that the townspeople would oft-times shake their heads and sigh:

“Them two’ll never amount to a hill of beans.” But Jimmie and Charlie amazed and fooled them all.

At the rather seedy, uneventful and undecided age of five years, when a youngster wants to be everything from a minister of the gospel to heavyweight boxing champion of the world, both Jimmie’s and Charlie’s parents decided that their sons should embark upon some sort of careers. Before Jimmie was born, his parents had decided what their second son would do for his life’s work. They had chosen music and the classics for him; Charlie’s parents had chosen literature and the arts for him.

So for a short while Jimmie practiced his music lessons but soon gave them up as hopeless, as did his parents, for the lad hated music lessons at that age with an undying hatred. As far as Charlie’s future in the field of literature was concerned, he too abandoned his parents’ choice.

Many things enter into the course of a child’s life even as they do with a grown-up, and consequently the career of a musician for Jimmie did not materialize. Instead the lad developed into one of the world’s foremost authors and conservationists of his time. It was Charlie Miller who became quite adept as an accomplished musician.

With the surrender of Lord Cornwallis came a man of adventurous spirit and Dutch descent into the land of the Mohawks and the Oneidas. As he journeyed through this country making friends with the Indian tribes, he chanced upon and fell madly in love with a beautiful Mohawk princess from a little village near the head waters of the Canada river. As to her name, it has not been learned, but as to her beauty, all the men and women of those days readily vouched. For she was as tall and as slender as the most delicate reed. The tiny moccasins which covered her feet were the smallest ever seen by her tribe. Indeed, she was the pride and joy of that village of Mohawks and of all tribes who had seen her as she roamed the forests.

Jim Curwood’s mother very distinctly remembers seeing this wilderness beauty. At that time Mrs. Curwood was but a child of ten and the lovely Indian princess was well past her eightieth birthday.

Her beauty was indeed bewitching and all white men, as well as the redman who had set eyes upon her loveliness, fell in love with her. Her hair was long, black and radiantly glossy. The shoes she wore upon her feet were so small that Jim’s mother, then but ten years of age, could not have put her feet into them.

It was the adventurous Dutchman wandering through the Mohawk region shortly after the Cornwallis surrender who married the Indian princess. This man was Jim Curwood’s phlegmatic great grandfather, an adventurer of the old school who ended up by marrying an Indian chief’s daughter. It is little wonder that young Jimmie became such a carefree, vagabond lover of the deep forests. Indian blood flowed deep within his veins and throughout his entire life the forests, the streams and the lakes were his home despite the fact that he owned a mansion in the very heart of civilization.

Shortly after the blond Dutchman had wooed and won his princess, there was born in England a man who later became a great naval officer in the Queen’s navy and a world famous writer of sea tales. A man who delved deeply into his memories and imagination to spin yarns of thrilling adventure on the land as well as on the swelling sea. His name was Captain Frederick Marrayat. That famous personage turned out to be a great-uncle of Jim Curwood’s.

Several years later it was these same stories of adventure, gallant battles and of brave men, which caused a lad named James to run away to sea and come to America in search of adventure and thrills. When he left England, he never returned.

Upon landing in America young James fought in the Civil War, where fighting blood ran fast and free. Here was what he had been searching for and at last he had found it. Years later that man became the father of Jim Curwood.

The little house in which Jimmie Curwood first saw the light of day no longer stands. Some time ago the two-story frame building was razed and so far no other construction has been erected in its place. However, a marker has been placed there, showing that it was on this particular lot that James Oliver Curwood had been born many years ago.

As time went on the two youngsters, Jimmie and Charlie, still persisted in getting into more and more mischief. People were beginning to shake their heads in disapproval and consequently Mr. and Mrs. Curwood began wondering what they should do to curb their son’s mischievous habits. For hardly without fail when anyone saw Jimmie, son of a shoe repair man, and Charlie, son of a saloon keeper, he was almost always sure to see something happen.

Both boys always ran about barefooted (something which you seldom see today), with dirty faces, hands and clothing, with no crowns in their hats whatsoever. It is little wonder that Jimmie’s hair became bleached by the sun and his face gathered a harvest of freckles.

As youngsters most children have peculiar ambitions, but those of Jimmie Curwood’s as a lad of seven were outstanding among childhood desires. It seems that his ambitions were just one or two paces behind his vivid imagination. For some day he hoped that he might be wealthy enough to buy an entire stock of bananas at one time. Then and only then would he be fully able to get his complete fill of the fruit he loved so well. His second ambition was to ride astride the large bustle worn by Kate Russell to Sunday church. Miss Russell was a cook at the combination saloon-hotel which was operated and owned by Charlie Miller’s father.

Despite all the obstacles that confronted them, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood were perhaps two of the happiest people in all of Owosso. They had a fine family and Mr. Curwood was making a fairly comfortable living with his shoe-cobbling shop. They had no luxuries, for they could not afford them, but they did have all the necessities that made for a comfortable happy life.

Regardless of how honored and respected Mr. and Mrs. Curwood were in their home town, the townspeople still continued to frown upon the antics of the Curwood and Miller children. Was there ever to be an end to all of this childhood devilment? This was the thought that plagued the minds of the citizens of Owosso when the great change came about.

Business began to grow bad for Mr. Curwood at his cobbling shop and after long deliberation he decided to sell out and purchase a farm somewhere. He received many offers for his shop “as it stood,” and so after a great deal of bickering he at last managed to get a fairly decent price and it was announced to Owosso that it would soon be rid of one of her two “Tom Sawyers.”

Although he had kept it from his family all along, Mr. Curwood at last told them one night in the dead of winter. He had made the down payment on a farm down in Ohio, located near the villages of Vermillion, Joppa and Florence in Erie County.

It was to be a new life for them and since business had slacked off to such a point that he could barely make a decent living, both Mr. and Mrs. Curwood felt that he had made a good investment.

The next day Mrs. Curwood, Jimmie, his sister Cora and brother Edward began preparing to leave their old home. With what money he had received from the sale of his shop, Mr. Curwood paid all of his debts and at last had all of his business interests straightened out. Even though he was left with very little to begin his new life, he paid every bill which the family owed in Owosso.

A few days later the family began its pilgrimage to the new land of Ohio.

The little backwood’s town of Owosso thought a great deal of James Moran and Abigail Griffen Curwood and sorely hated to see them depart, despite the fact that they were taking with them one of the town’s biggest trouble makers. Still, regardless of what their outward appearances were toward Jimmie, deep within their hearts the neighbors and all who knew him, loved him.

The move from Michigan into Ohio was later to prove the most important change in all of young Jim Curwood’s life. Many things were to happen, many events to take place within the next five years that none of the Curwood family ever dreamed would happen.

When the family of five arrived at their little farm located not far from the cross-roads village of Joppa, it was in deep winter and their forty acres were covered with snow. The head of the family was highly elated over the prospects of his “sight-unseen” purchase and at once began making plans for it.

It was not until the arrival of spring, when the snows had cleared away, that Jimmie’s father found that he had purchased something which more closely resembled a stone quarry than a farm. As far as one could see there were nothing but stones and boulders all over the forty acres of his land.

One can easily imagine the thoughts that came into the elderly Mr. Curwood’s mind as he gazed out upon what he thought was to be his salvation. Instead of rich, fertile farmland, he had purchased a practically worthless land of stones.

One night at the supper table Mr. Curwood called upon his children to help him more than he had expected them to. The stones must be picked up and stacked in piles and the work of doing so must be left to the two young sons, monotonous, laborious and endless as it must have seemed to them.

Jimmie hated his daily task of picking up rocks from sunup to sundown, but he had enough foresight to realize that he had a job to do that must be done. So together, day in and day out, Jimmie and Ed picked up stones. Picked them up so their father could plough the fields and till the soil.

Life now was drab for Jimmie. Gone were the glorious, carefree days along the banks of the Shiawassee. In their place had come the ceaseless task of picking up stones and rolling huge boulders out of the way. No longer had he the ambition to ride astride Kate Russell’s huge bustle, nor to own a whole stock of bananas. Just as any young boy of seven years would feel, Jimmie hated and dreaded work, and especially this type. It seemed that the more stones he and his brother Ed would pick up, the more there were. For with every furrow that their father’s plough would turn over, there would always appear a fresh supply of rocks, both large and small.

The two boys piled stones into great stacks higher than their heads; they constructed stone fences and they piled rocks until there were stacks actually higher than the farmhouse itself. There were great heaps of stones all over the forty acres of land. As a matter of fact there was hardly enough room left to break up the ground anew and plant crops. It was rapidly and most assuredly developing into a serious situation. Then, suddenly, relief came from an unexpected source.

The highway department of Erie county came to their rescue and took 3,000 loads of the stones at ten cents a load. For at that time the county needed stones for road repair and for numerous other repair jobs.

With the arrival of summer came long hard months of hot, back-breaking toil. Jimmie and Ed wore thick, hard callouses upon their hands, their backs seemed as if they were about to break, and the sun bronzed them until they began to look like Indians. Many times during the long three summer months Jimmie became overheated by the sun and fell in his tracks in that summer of ’85. But work had to be done if success in their new venture of farming was to be accomplished. There was little grumbling from anyone now with the realization that they must work and save if they were to live during the coming winter.

Directly across the road from the Curwood farm stood the home of Hiram Fisher, a kindly old farmer, who had developed a beautiful homesite and whose yard was filled with maple and pine trees.

The Fisher family was not as large as the Curwood’s, for there was but one child, a very lovely daughter named Jeanne who was young Jimmie’s superior by five years. Perhaps her outstanding characteristic was the beautiful brown hair which fell in glossy waves down to her trim and fragile shoulders. It was the most lovely head of hair that Jimmie or his family had ever set eyes upon. It is indeed odd that a boy as young as he was should take much notice of a girl’s hair, but its bewitching beauty made him secretly admire it.

She would always part it in the middle and let it flow down to her shoulders in long flowing tresses. She was gloriously beautiful for her age.

As time went on and Jeanne and Jimmie became better acquainted, he adopted a nickname for her that was to remain with her all the days of her life. He affectionately called her “Whistling Jeanne,” because of the beautiful tunes she whistled almost constantly.

She alone was the inspiration which helped Jimmie to hold his head high when he felt blue or useless. For Jeanne offered him companionship, untiring encouragement and wonderful guidance. She inspired him to greater things in life. Jimmie often was heard to make that remark both as a child and later as a grown man.

It was about the time that Jeanne was nearing her twelfth birthday and Jimmie his seventh, that this thought came to him:

“No matter how hard the work is, and no matter what it might be, I shall always do my task thoroughly.”

The stones that he had picked up all spring and summer finally set Jimmie to serious thinking. Every now and then after he had worked an hour or two, he would walk over to a shade tree nearby and sit down to mop the grime and perspiration from his brow. Then he would look out over the long, fertile fields that were once not so fertile and resolve that he could do anything that he should set out to do, if only he would adjust and drive himself toward it. The look in his young eyes denoted that of an adventurer. The eyes for thrills and dangers of the unknown. Even at the age of seven years, young James Oliver Curwood had begun to wonder what lay just over the brink of the next ridge.

Then, as if no such thoughts had even come to him, he would return to his task of piling stones; but as he worked he would experience a thrill, a feeling such as he had never known before as he stooped down to pick up the fragments of boulders. True, it was monotonous there in the hot broiling sun, but to Jimmie, there now was something creative in that piling up of rocks—something of which he was justly proud.

“I experienced a greater thrill when I had done three piles than I did when I had but accomplished two.”

With the arrival of fall and early winter, James Curwood saw that the work his sons and he had done had been a success. His crops had all turned out good and his farm was now a thing of beauty instead of a stone quarry. It was quite obvious that the hard labor and toil his sons and he had administered had not been in vain. Mr. Curwood being an honest and God-fearing man, thanked his Maker for his family’s salvation.

Each afternoon that winter after a hard day’s work, “the three men of the family” would trudge up to the small, white house to be greeted by the good mother and a meal of wholesome, plain, but substantial food.

The Curwood home was small, warm and comfortable, even though humble. The important item was that the little family was happy in its new home. In those days there were no electric lights, telephones, radios or motion pictures or even automobiles. So it was only natural that the fine Curwoods always were close to the “home fires.” Though meager and humble their home, no other family could have been happier.

They used the old type of Lion Brand coffee at two pounds for a quarter, and the usual stick of candy once a month or so. They had plenty of eggs and bread, for Mrs. Curwood raised hens and young chickens. Above all else, the neighbors nearby thought the world of the Curwoods and considered them “real, down-to-earth country people.”

As the winter of 1886 at last settled over them, Jimmie’s father and his family settled down to a long, cold winter, snug and secure in their own home, which by now was nearly paid for. The migration to Ohio had proved itself successful in every respect. No longer did Jimmie persist in his childish devilment, for there was neither the place nor the time for it.

CHAPTER TWO
 
A CHANGE COMES ABOUT

At the beginning of the winter of 1886 Jimmie found a new friend in Clarence “Skinny” Hill, a new boy who had moved into the neighborhood. Despite this newly formed friendship, “Whistling Jeanne” remained Jimmie’s great comfort. For no matter how tired he might be at the end of the day he could always turn to her for encouragement and fun.

Usually their nightly visits would begin just as darkness would settle over the Ohio countryside. In the winter they would sit before the great open fireplace and talk and plan. By summer they would be sitting on the Fisher’s front porch steps and watch the sun sink beneath the western horizon and twilight creep upon the world.

For it was there on the Fisher front steps that Jimmie and his Jeanne would dream and plan for the future. Many are the nights that these two were to be found there, with Jeanne telling him what would be the wisest thing to do and how to set about doing it. He always listened attentively and throughout his life he never forgot what she told him. To him her words were words of wisdom and law, and he knew she was right. She never told him anything that wasn’t true. Of this he was sure.

It was just about this time in Jimmie Curwood’s life that everything which was to prove itself worthwhile later in his life’s work began to unfold.

Through constant reading, thinking and planning he had developed a mania for wanting to see stories of his own in print by setting the words down himself. Many were the times that his parents would have to speak to him a dozen or more times a night in order to get him to turn out the lights and go to bed. Seldom did Jimmie mind them on this account if he could get around it, for by now he was deeply engrossed in his childish writing career.

As for his ravenous reading, the boy could not put a book down until he had read completely through it and thoroughly understood it. He craved to express himself on paper and tried desperately to develop characters such as those of famous writers whose stories he had read.

His appreciative sense of good writing at that age was truly unusual.

Like every other youngster Jimmie had to have his play as well as his work. Thus his playtime had to cut in on his writing somewhat. So he alternated his time between Jeanne, Skinny, his writing and his working hours. Through this routine he managed to keep himself quite busy throughout the day. At times he felt as if he had too much to do, but still he enjoyed it all for life had taken on a new meaning.

As each succeeding day passed by the little farm began to mean more to him than just a place in the country where hard labor was prevalent; it became, instead, a place where one’s creative and imaginative powers could function more properly. At that age little Jimmie Curwood, the former “Tom Sawyer” of Owosso, was hoping for solitude so that he could think more clearly and thus be able to turn his characters into more lifelike people.

The remainder of that year passed rather uneventfully until the day of his eighth birthday. On that day his father presented him with his first gun, a brand new rifle.

The most amusing and yet the most serious incident that occurred in all of Jimmie’s young life while on the farm in Ohio, was the night that he “got religion.” He was nine years old.

It seems that a certain “Parson Brown” was holding revival meetings at the little town of Joppa, which was just a mile distant from the Curwood farm. Jimmie decided to see what it was all about. He had heard his parents speak of “the meetings” that were being held in Joppa, quite often. That night he trudged across the open fields, half afraid and hardly knowing what to expect.

That night at Joppa, in the little country church as the excitement grew to a fever’s pitch, Jimmie sat back and listened intently until he could no longer suppress himself. He jumped up from his seat and ran to the front of the church proclaiming that he had been saved and that the Holy Ghost had entered his body and soul.

Young Jimmie was truly inspired and this incident played an important part in his later life.

Until that moment his ideas concerning God and Heaven above had been practically the same as those of any other normal boy or girl. That heaven was just a place where all good people go, and that God was their protector. Tonight all this was changed and at the age of nine years Jimmie Curwood had already found God. It was a wonderful thing for this lad to be able to do, and it must have remained as an inspiration with him all the days of his life. Little did he realize, however, the predicament it would get him into in the days to come.

At that meeting when he rushed to the front of the church to Parson Brown proclaiming his faith and his belief, all eyes, of which there were many, were focused upon the figure of the small boy. Pleasing smiles came to every face when they discovered that a small boy was claiming his Maker. It was a wonderful sight as the Parson led the congregation in prayer and in song for the young boy as he knelt there before the improvised altar. This was the important thing in his young life that led Jim Curwood to the heights of success he later attained. For he admitted to the public many years later this same admission of faith.

“It was only through God Almighty that I have reached the pinnacle of fame and success that I have.”

Shortly after the meeting had been adjourned, with the usual benediction, Jimmie cut across the fields and through the dark woods that he had heretofore been afraid to cross at night. He felt no fear, for the spirit of the Holy Ghost was strong within him. He was reported to have said a few days later:

“An angel went with me.”

From all indications one is led to believe that the angel that guided and went with him was none other than the lovely Jeanne Fisher.

The following morning Jimmie awakened still feeling strong with the religious spirit.

He felt strong with the spirit which had entered his body the night before and he wanted the whole world to know all about it. Little did he realize the blow that his inflated and loving disposition was to receive in a short time. His parents thought it fine for this thing to have happened to their son, but at the same time felt that other people might object to it. Unfortunately enough, Jimmie could not control himself and so to his schoolmates he told of his wonderful experience. As he spoke of the new faith that had become his, his schoolmates promptly laughed in his face.

“Ha! Ha! You’re crazy, Jimmie Curwood. You’re crazy!”

Then everyone took up the chant. On that day Jimmie found himself involved in a total of five different fights, for he could not stand to have anyone say that he was crazy because he believed in something which was wonderful and something which had taken possession of his mind, body and soul. However, like all youngsters eventually come to find, Jimmie found that the flesh is weaker than the soul. From that day forth Jimmie was still given drubbings from time to time.

During those hectic days one person other than his family stood beside him to comfort and advise him. That person was his “Whistling Jeanne.”

Days lengthened into weeks and weeks into months and still Jimmie continued to pick up stones on his father’s farmlands; stones that were to later prove themselves to be “worth their weight in gold.”

The longer he remained at his daily task the more his air castles grew. His vivid imagination gave rise to dreams and hopes of greater things. All his visions and plans were strictly private and no one was allowed to interfere with the young creative artist’s dreams. Not even little Jeanne nor his pal Skinny was allowed to pierce their sacred portals. What he felt, what he dreamed of, and what he planned to do were all sacred thoughts and now vitally important to this nine-and-one-half year old lad.

Long after the usual supper hour had been completed Jimmie would go to his room to think and to plan and to write. Many were the times that his mother had to beg her puzzling offspring to put his books aside and go to bed in order to get the proper amount of rest. Jimmie’s mind was thoroughly made up and he was really intent upon what he was working for and seeking so desperately.

For six months or so Jimmie Curwood continued with his writing of his childish though well-meant blood and thunder stories, stories which he believed were truly fine.

It really did not matter to him upon what kind of paper he set his stories down, just so long as they were written. He would pick up wrapping paper and cut it into squares, or else if nothing else was available he would write his stories on tissue paper which came in shoe boxes.

As fast as he would complete one of his “swift moving, red-blooded yarns,” he would carefully file it away as best as any young schoolboy could possibly do. Writing was in his blood and it was taking complete possession of his every thought and action.

It was only after he had completed some twenty “thrillers” that he brought the entire stack down from his room and asked his parents if he might read his stories to them. There naturally was no hesitation on their part, for they were anxious to see their youngest child pursue a career such as he was now doing. So for several hours Jimmie’s parents were silent as their “pride and joy” went on with his avid reading. That night the boy read through the entire stack of manuscripts, taking some three hours and a half to complete the job. When he had finished his father walked over to him at the far end of the long kitchen table.

“You’re going to get there, Jimmie boy, you’re going to get there. Just you keep at it!”

The boy smiled, for those few words of encouragement meant a great deal to one who wanted to be a great writer.

He silently picked up his stories, went to his room and filed them away again. Hardly five minutes had elapsed before he was back at his improvised desk to start work on a new story.

At twelve-thirty that night the boy at last put away his pencils and his papers and went to bed. Rather late for a young, growing boy to retire, but his heart and soul were really in his newly-found work. With the coming day he was to have one of his greatest childhood surprises.

In the next day’s mail came the wonderful news that Jimmie’s sister Amy, who had remained behind in her own home in Owosso when the family had gone to Ohio, was coming to visit them. Since he had not seen Amy for a long time he was indeed overjoyed at the prospects of her home-coming. Three days passed until she at last arrived. Only a few short seconds after she had entered the house, Jimmie remarked:

“Gosh, Amy, you’ve changed!”

Almost from the very beginning of her visit Jimmie began telling her of his stories and shyly asked her to help him. He wanted her to read them and to tell him just what she really thought. Sister Amy’s interest in her younger brother’s career as a forthcoming author was not casual, but really of great concern.

She did everything in her power as a woman and as a sister to encourage her kid brother and to help him in every way possible. She even went so far as to check his make shift manuscripts for the errors in punctuation, sentence structure and spelling.

Perhaps the greatest step she took in the furthering of her brother’s career was to arouse the interest of Fred Janette, great newspaperman and contributor to Golden Days magazine.

To Jimmie this “introduction” was nothing short of a miracle. To get the great Fred Janette interested in his writings was indeed a mighty step toward his future as an author.

Now with the noted journalist interested in him, together with his sister’s constant coaxing, Jimmie was at last persuaded to send one of his seemingly impossible creations to the editor of Happy Hours magazine. Amy knew her brother’s work was not of literary quality but merely wanted to see the editor’s reaction and just how the manuscript would be treated. So the hand-written story was posted and within a few days, as was expected, the postman returned it with a neatly printed rejection slip attached to it.

The feature of it all was that the slip bore words of kind encouragement to the aspiring author. For the editor of Happy Hours realized that a child had submitted the script and had judged it accordingly.

The little pink slip assured the boy that if he would keep everlastingly at it he would eventually succeed in having his stories published. From that time on his rapidly maturing mind was on nothing else save that of writing. School and work entered into his everyday routine, of course, but even while he was attending to these duties he still was thinking of writing.

To add to his happiness he received in the mail one day a letter from Fred Janette himself asking the boy to send him one of his stories. Jimmie was jubilant. The very next day Amy mailed out one of her brother’s very best manuscripts which she herself had transcribed for legibility.

Several days elapsed before the anxiously waiting Curwood family received any word on the judgment of Jimmie’s story. Eventually it came through. Mr. Janette was returning the manuscript but on the fly leaf was the following inscription:

“Keep at it, fellow, you cannot fail!”

Those words meant a great deal to Jimmie, and the manuscript bearing those words remains today, yellow with age, in Curwood Castle.

Now satisfied that she had helped her brother as best she could, Amy returned to Owosso.

From that moment hence Jimmie Curwood could not be held down in the reaching of his ultimate goal. Guided by that ever present desire to become wealthy, famous and to create his own characters on his own pages in his own stories, Jimmie Curwood probably never knew exactly when to quit writing once he had commenced. He drove himself unmercifully toward that which he desired so much. It seems almost unreasonable to think that a lad of his age was capable of such determination, but facts cannot be denied or doubted. Inspiration is one thing, while encouragement and help is still another. That which he knew so well could not be suppressed. It was there within him, germinating his mind, tormenting his soul.

It has often been said that a suppressed thought in the mind of a creative writer is the worst possible thing for him to endure. He may endure all the hardships of life that are thrown in his path, but a suppressed idea or thought germinating in his mind, is fiendish torture. Such must have undoubtedly been the case of Jimmie Curwood at that young age.

Although Amy had returned to Owosso she wrote her brother every week, sending him hope and inspiration. Fred Janette from time to time wrote to the boy urging him to keep at his work. Even between times in his writing as Jimmie would be picking up stones again or else at some other type of farm labor, he experienced thrills that he had not known before. He knew he was accomplishing something, creating that which no one could destroy.

As he continued piling stone on stone and as they began to take form, Jimmie imagined that they were great castles which held gallant princes and lovely princesses. He envisioned heroes who possessed more courage and more valor than any other earthly mortal. They fought long, hard, bitter battles, always to be victorious in the end. The developing of this vivid imagination at this early age in life was one of the direct causes for Jimmie’s rise to fame.

For the first time since his dreams and plans had begun to materialize, Jimmie at last shared his ideas with his “Whistling Jeanne.” She knew all of his fondest hopes and his aspirations, and she prayed for him and fought for him in many of his schoolboy tussles.

She alone stood up for him because he was so much smaller than the majority of the other boys and she was old enough and capable enough to manage most of them. She stood up for him when she knew he was wrong. She even talked Mrs. Curwood out of a great deal of spankings that were due the lad and which he surely would have received had it not have been for her. Although five years his senior, Jimmie looked upon her as being of his own age and even younger, perhaps.

It might be said that Jimmie Curwood had loved Jeanne in his own silent, youthful, schoolboy way. He adored, in silent worship, her great blue eyes, her thick braids of radiant brown hair and her flawless complexion. As a matter of fact everyone loved little Jeanne Fisher, but as Jim Curwood once said later in life:

“Everyone loved her, but none so devoutly as I.”

In the winter of 1884 when James Curwood and his family moved into the little farm in Ohio, Jeanne Fisher took it upon herself to see that the Curwoods became her friends. The lovely Jeanne was lonely and needed friendships besides those of schoolmates.

For, from the time school was dismissed in the afternoon until the following morning, she was entirely alone with her parents. No playmates, no neighbors lived within a mile of her home.

So when the Curwoods came, Jeanne quickly presented herself. It was a strange new land to Jimmie as well as to his parents and consequently they all welcomed her friendly approach. She tried and she succeeded in making the young boy feel at home in his new neighborhood. From that time on, nothing save death could separate the pair.

By the nickname of “Whistling Jeanne,” one would be led to believe that the girl was a “tom-boy,” and so she was, to a certain extent. Her kindness for Jimmie, however, would surely tempt one to believe to the contrary. For when Jimmie nicknamed her “Whistling Jeanne,” he did so because he loved to hear her incessant whistling. She would whistle regardless of how much trouble she might be in, or no matter how low her spirits might be. At times she was very much a young lady of the first rank; but she could become a regular “tom-boy” if the occasion called for it. She was a swift runner, a good tree climber, an excellent shot with a rifle and she could put up as good a fight as most boys of her own age are capable of. Still she was every inch a young lady. Quiet and refined as the occasion demanded. She did not believe in being inactive, believing that one should keep one’s body as well as one’s mind occupied.

Only a few short months after Jimmie had launched himself on a literary career Jeanne’s guiding influence was tossed to the four winds by the reckless, though well-meaning, lad. For at that time he came under the influence and thumb of the school bully. Everything that could have happened to a schoolboy who was being led astray happened to Jimmie Curwood. He was now almost eleven years of age while Jeanne was nearly sixteen.

One morning during the first semester of school Jimmie made a terrible mistake in one of his lessons as well as having been guilty of a boyish misdemeanor.

“Jimmie Curwood, if you don’t correct yourself and apologize for your intended error, I shall box your ears,” the elderly lady teacher informed him. Sitting directly behind him was the school bully.

On more than one occasion he had caused trouble and he was once again up to his old pranks. He whispered to Jimmie and told him just what to do. It is at this age that young boys get to feel pretty important if they can hold the limelight for a while.

At first Jimmie hesitated, but when the bully called him a coward, he blurted out:

“You don’t dare to do it!”

The entire classroom instantly became ghastly silent, for the students realized only too well that this meant trouble. They also knew that the bully was directing Jimmie and he too was afraid of what the consequences might be.

The lady teacher demanded that Jimmie come immediately to the front of the room. The boy was timid and afraid, but at the same time he admired the bully for his brawn and straight-forward actions. Urged on, Jimmie got up from his seat and moved slowly toward his teacher. As he stood there in front of her “the bombshell exploded.”

The good teacher informed him of his punishment and then, following the instructions and directions of the over-grown boy, Jimmie proceeded to give his teacher a very sound drubbing, much to the bully’s delight. Not only was the teacher chagrined, but she was touched and hurt deeply.

After the hectic battle, which Jimmie nearly lost because of his teacher’s extra poundage, only the bully congratulated him. The others said nothing. Then, like most boys after committing a wrong, Jimmie came to his senses, apologized and received his punishment like a man. In due course, the elder Curwood learned of his son’s escapade, and he, too, acted accordingly. Eventually Jimmie returned to school and apologized for the second time to his teacher. Needless to say she realized that Jimmie felt it had all been his fault. She accepted his apology and reinstated him in school.

Unfortunately, however, this did not end the boy’s associations with the prodigious bully. Once again, after much coaxing, the bully took him in hand. In order to increase his prestige in the younger boy’s eyes, the older and larger lad proceeded to thoroughly trounce a big, strapping German boy. All of this occurred just a few days after the first escapade. Once more the light of adoration began to shine in Jimmie’s eyes. This reoccurrence of the friendship fortunately led to one of the greatest turning points in Jim Curwood’s entire life.

Many adventures take place in the life of a young boy, but seldom do they come as thick and fast as they did to Jimmie. For soon after all the excitement died down at school, young Jimmie discovered a revolver of small caliber that belonged to his mother, and so he brought it to school with him one day. This added to his prestige, but in a minor sort of way.

His exhibition of the weapon was met with sighs and glances of amazement by the students but none dared inform the teacher of what they had seen. They all realized the consequences if they were caught as informers.

It was during the afternoon of that early spring day that Jimmie secured permission to leave the schoolroom for a few minutes. Upon arriving outside he noticed two girls leaving an outhouse building. Ideas began popping in his imaginative young mind and so he promptly began firing the pistol above their heads. The effect could not have been worse had he struck them, for the girls were thrown into nervous hysteria.

If Jimmie thought that he had received dire punishment for his earlier prank, he was indeed badly mistaken. He had not realized the dangerous folly he had let himself in for. He was punished more thoroughly than ever before by school officials. But the worst was yet to come from his parents, as the boy fully realized.

As he escaped from the small crowd that had gathered on the school grounds and with head hanging low, Jimmie slunk across the fields toward home, sorely afraid and indeed bewildered at the trouble he had caused. His mind began to run wild as it had in his adventure stories. It kept telling him over and over that this was the end. There was no possible means of escape.

CHAPTER THREE
 
THE DISCOVERER

Many devilish thoughts plagued the eleven year old Jimmie’s mind as he hurriedly made his way across the fields to his home. What was going to happen to him? What would his parents do to him? Jimmie was afraid and he had just cause to be so.

The very thing which he had done led the boy to believe that they hanged people or else shot them for such actions. He did not stop to think that he had not killed anyone, yet his child’s mind told him differently. He had brought disgrace down upon the good name of his family, and forever upon himself. And above all else, he did not want to be hanged. It really seemed to the boy that the end of the world was near for him and that there was nothing that could save him.

He was hardly a hundred yards from home when he almost burst out crying, but he refrained from doing so for he felt that he was too much of a man.

Then Jimmie thought of escape.

Only his sister Cora was in the house. And she did not see Jimmie until he had packed all that he felt he needed for his trip “away from the good old home.”

Among the possessions which he had gathered up were his hunting knife, a butcher knife, fishing tackle and a very small parcel of food. The quantity of food which young Jimmie had packed up was hardly enough for more than two meals at the most. Also it did not occur to him to take more than the clothing upon his back. In his mind he kept telling himself that he never would return. But at this time there was but one thought that stuck in his mind. That thought was to put as much distance as possible between the schoolhouse and himself. Just as he started for the back door, he was confronted by his sister.

“Where are you going, Jimmie?”

“I’m going out for a little hiking trip. Be back before long,” he replied with his head hanging low. “Goodbye.”

Had Cora thought about it at the time, she would have realized that her little brother was home early from school.

Taking one more fond glance at the old home, Jimmie turned and strode out of the door and made for the nearby woods half a mile away. It was with hurried steps too that he fled from his home, for deep in his young and perhaps rather foolish heart Jimmie feared that a posse might be organized to overtake him. Then if he were caught dire consequences might result.

When at last he entered the woods he had little thought of what to do or where to go. He just walked along glancing back occasionally when at last he made up his mind to head for Lake Erie and there board a tramp steamer bound for a foreign port.

Finally he reached the “Old Woman’s Creek” which flowed through the woods.

This proved to be the place for his first stopover; darkness was falling and he was afraid to go further alone into the night. This spot, too, was a favorite of Skinny’s and his. Here he knew a hundred different places to hide away without fear of detection.

Darkness fell quickly and quietly upon the wooded lands and the fear in the youngster’s heart swelled. Out on the surface of the river the splashings of leaping fish were to be heard. Near the banks came the ever-present calling of the frogs, that eerie cry that comes to the solitary traveler usually at this hour of the night.

Jimmie hurried on along the river’s banks to a vacant red barn. He hurried inside the rickety old frame structure and searched in the dark for a suitable place to sleep.

After several minutes of silent and cautious searching, Jimmie stumbled onto a manger half filled with hay. But sleep for the young boy was entirely out of the question at the present. For just outside the barn flowed “Old Woman’s Creek.” Jimmie shuddered at the very thought of the name. And, as if that wasn’t enough, the bull-frogs continued their strange and weird calling in the night, adding still more fears to his whirling brain. It seemed to the young boy that they were saying over and over again:

“You’re a goner! You’re a goner! You’re a goner!”

Try as he might, Jimmie just could not go to sleep. His childish imagination led him to believe that a posse of men were just outside the door waiting for him to come out so that they could pounce upon him. For with a screech owl high on the sagging roof hooting dreadfully and then the dead silence that followed along with the beat of bats’ wings, it is little wonder that the boy ever went to sleep.

With the first streak of dawn Jimmie slipped out of the manger with all the cautiousness of an Indian scout and looked carefully about.

Feeling that perhaps someone had lain in wait for him during the night he took no unnecessary chances. Seeing that no one was in sight he hurried down to the spot along the river where his pal Skinny and he had their log raft cached. He soon found it and without a moment’s hesitation he climbed aboard and with the aid of a long pole pushed himself out into the river’s current. All the terror which had possessed him the night before seemed to have vanished and he once again began to feel very much like a grown man.

The wind was now beginning to churn the river’s waters into a lather, and was actually carrying the small, frail raft out into Lake Erie. Jimmie was yards away from shore and was still going out. He frantically attempted to pole himself back to the bank, but it was useless. Minutes grew into hours and still Jimmie Curwood was seeking some way in which to get back to the fading, distant shore. He was being tossed about upon the little raft just like a piece of cork upon the ocean. Half afraid, he eagerly scanned the fastly fading shoreline in all directions until his eyes fell upon the dim outline of a sailing ship.

“No words in any language could have properly expressed my relief when a sloop with snowy sails appeared on the horizon.”

Instantly the youngster began to yell, scream and wave his arms long before anyone could have possibly heard him. Eventually the ship spotted the drifting raft and picked the boy up. When taken aboard he drew one long sigh of relief, started crying and then collapsed upon the deck.

It was the good ship Sandusky whose white sails Jimmie had seen. Upon being revived the Captain of the sloop began questioning the lad, asking who he was, from where he had come and just what he was doing out on the lake.

It was some time after he had been taken aboard that the Captain could get any information from him. When at last he succeeded they were several miles from shore and could not possibly return to the spot from which Jimmie had embarked. Later on when he had unfolded his story and had answered all the Captain’s questions, the Captain and his men all enjoyed a hearty laugh. He, too, was forced to laugh in a timid manner for it seemed amusing to him now that he had seriously stopped to think about it.

For the next two hours Jimmie leaned over the railing of the ship taking in of the broad expanse of water and the white caps which topped each wave. This was his first experience at sea and the youngster was enjoying every minute of it now that he was safely aboard a ship. This to him was truly thrilling adventure.

Far ahead over the rolling waves Jimmie could see the mainland lined by tall buildings and rows of stately trees. The storm was now beginning to subside and the violent rocking of the ship soon came to an end. He thanked his stars above for this, for he was nearly seasick.

Later in the day when they neared the port of Sandusky, the Captain called Jimmie aside and explained to him in a fatherly manner that the good people of Joppa and Vermillion would neither hang him nor imprison him and that he had nothing whatsoever to fear upon his return as long as he behaved himself. As for his parents, they were surely worried over his absence, and they would without a doubt welcome him back with open arms and warm hearts. After Jimmie had listened to all this talk from the aged Captain the old world began to look bright and rosy once again and he expressed the desire to return as soon as possible.

The ship sailed on past Huron and into the port of Sandusky where the Captain and a handful of “gobs” took Jimmie to show him the town while he waited to embark for home.

As the young boy in his tattered clothing was becoming interested in the sights of Sandusky, the Captain detoured somewhere along the line and sent a telegram to Jimmie’s father telling him where the lad was and to come and get him immediately.

A short while later the Captain rejoined his crew who were showing Jimmie the time of his life, and they all went to a nearby lunchroom where they partook of a hearty meal. This was the first good meal which the boy had had since he had left home the day before.

After having his dinner Jimmie then was taken for a walk through the little lakeside city of Sandusky where he saw his first tall buildings. He simply stood there with his mouth wide open as he gazed in silent adoration and amazement at the towering structures. For Sandusky at that time was a city of some eighteen thousand people and her streets were wide and tapering as they wound their way through the parks and down past beautiful homes.

Most awe-inspiring of all were the beautiful school buildings. Great stone edifices that were as much as three stories tall and usually an entire city block in length. Here the sailors stopped to let him watch the students come out of school. They were all dressed well and seemed to be so much older than those he had known in the schools he had attended. But he realized that he was nearly as old as most of them and that back at the one-room school near his home the people did not dress nearly so well just to go to school. This was entirely different from anything he had ever known.

After all the students had passed from his sight, Jimmie was taken still closer so that he might be able to see the magnificent structure at first hand. The huge building had great, wide halls covered with carpets, and mammoth rooms with many desks. This was truly enchantment of the first class for Jimmie Curwood. He felt certain that all this must be a dream.

As he stood there looking upon the symbols of higher education, he found that he no longer wanted to become a great Indian fighter, a buffalo hunter, or worse yet, a bold pirate. Instead, he now wanted to become a part of schools such as he was now standing before. He wanted to be one of the kings among the beautiful queens. He actually believed that he wanted to study. Until this moment his world had been the forty acre farm back there at Joppa, with all of its stones. Now a great, new world had opened up and Jimmie Curwood was determined to grasp it.

Later that same day his father arrived to take his son back home and away from the beautiful school buildings of Sandusky. En route homeward the boy tried his best to express to his father that which he felt in his heart. He told him of all he had encountered since he had run away from home. He told of the great lake he had sailed upon the first night away, and the magnificent schools he had seen and visited. His father understood.

The night of his return home found Jimmie sitting on the Fisher’s front steps with “Whistling Jeanne.” There was a full moon overhead casting down its beautiful light upon the green, fertile fields and hills. There almost seemed to be a song in the air—a song of happiness. A soft breeze was blowing through the cottonwoods and all about the house the crickets and the katydids gave forth with their serenades.

And once again Jeanne Fisher was comforting Jimmie as she had always done. Between their telling of their dreams of the future, Jimmie told Jeanne of all the wonderful things he had seen while he had been away, and of how he had visited the wonderful school building in Sandusky. He told her how he wanted to attend school there. Jeanne explained in her best manner that Sandusky was very far away and that it would cost a great deal of money for him to go to school in such a place regardless of how beautiful it might be.

But Jimmie vowed that some day, somehow, he would go to that great school to study. “Whistling Jeanne” Fisher realized then that his mind was firmly set and that he would go to any means to gain his objective, as he had proven in the past.

Seriously thinking the matter over Jeanne at last came to the conclusion that there were other schools equally as fine as the ones in Sandusky, and that if he would work hard and save his money and speak to his parents earnestly, he might some day get the opportunity he was looking for.

With the following morning, Jimmie did begin work, at whatever odd jobs he could find during his spare time. Regardless of what the task might be Jimmie was on the job.

With winter’s arrival he hunted and trapped rabbits and continued with this until the arrival of spring. When the snows had passed and winter was no more he managed to get himself a job on an adjoining farm picking up brush, trash and waste at the extremely low rate of twenty-five cents per acre. The boy took this job and did his work without grumbling because it meant a few more dollars toward his potential education. His mind was fired with the ambition to go to school where he could study to be a great writer, and go to school he would.

Spring and summer soon passed, and during this time Jimmie Curwood had beaten carpets, picked up brush and accomplished many other jobs as well as saving his rabbit pelts from the winter before. He now had enough money to buy himself a brand new suit of clothes. But with the arrival of fall Jimmie began to worry about achieving his ambition. Many days of anxious coaxing on his part began to pay off in dividends. For Mr. and Mrs. Curwood decided that if their son was so intent upon attending school and college, they would see to it that he would do so, even if it meant selling the farm.

That was it! That was the solution to their problem. They would sell the farm and move into town where Jimmie’s father could once again set up in the shoe-repair business. Days passed during which time the problem was given much serious thought. It was only after a month of such deep thought that Mr. Curwood at last decided not to sell the farm, but instead to leave Edward behind to take care of it. So, at last, came the day when the family prepared to move into the little town of Wakeman. This happened to be Mrs. Curwood’s girlhood home town.

A great many things were loaded upon the old spring wagon and as the first load began to pull out of the barnyard, Jimmie noticed tears in his mother’s eyes. She hated to leave the farm but it was a great day for her because of the educational desires of her youngest son.

Jimmie did not ride along with the first load of household goods but remained behind to go with the last load. Although of late Jimmie had not spent much of his time with Skinny, his pal remained with him for the duration of his time on the farm. Naturally, lovely Jeanne was with him, too, for it was partially through her pleading that Jimmie was getting the opportunity that he so desired.

The fateful day for departure inevitably came. It was all that Jimmie could do to keep back the tears, but he manfully refrained. He told Skinny that he would see him again soon and then he kissed Jeanne goodbye and climbed aboard the wagon. But hardly had he gotten aboard than he jumped off and proceeded to walk with Skinny as far as Bingham’s old orchard. Several minutes later the two young men saw the end of their last walk together, for ahead lay the end of the long orchard.

It was an orchard that the two boys had played in often and which was surrounded by a tall, six foot fence. Without a moment’s hesitation, merely because he realized that he should, Jimmie Curwood climbed aboard the spring wagon as they reached the end of the orchard with his mother and father, and was on his way to his new home in the city. He was going to a home wherein would come bright new horizons for the future.

Looking back a few minutes later Jimmie saw his boyhood chum standing in the middle of the dusty road waving frantically at him. Skinny was standing just where Jimmie had left him when he had climbed aboard the wagon. Further back on the road in front of the old house stood the Fisher family. There they were, Jeanne and her parents all waving their last goodbyes. A great lump came into Jimmie’s throat as the wagon rounded a bend in the road and his friends faded from sight.

When the Curwood family moved into Wakeman its population consisted of somewhere around one thousand other inhabitants. It was a trading center for a huge farming belt, and it was also a freight center. The Lake Shore and Michigan Southern railroad lines passed through the little community. Wakeman had but one main street and this was a beehive of activity on Saturdays.

There were two large general stores where one could buy anything from soup to nuts and from ploughs to jackasses. Wakeman also housed three nice grocery stores, one blacksmith shop, one poolroom and one small hotel. Therefore it was a very prosperous city for its size.

Wakeman also boasted of a cooperage in which thousands of apple barrels were manufactured daily for consumption by most of the midwest and northwestern states. Despite the number of years that have passed, this cooperage still stands today with the usual output.

Typical of all mid-western cities and villages, Wakeman was always converted into a thriving metropolis on Saturdays. On this day all the farmers from miles around would manage to come into town. They would gather about and talk about their crops, weather conditions, national affairs and always those jokes which simply must be told. They would purchase what they were going to need during the coming week and load their buggies and wagons with their supplies and then head back for the farms around nine-thirty or ten o’clock.

Wakeman had its rows upon rows of hitching rails and posts to which the farmers tied their horses and teams. Today most of those historic relics have vanished.

The first few days in Wakeman proved to be quite different from what Jimmie had expected. He knew the farm people and their ways, but he did not know the townsfolk and their standards and traditions. In fact it was in Wakeman that he attended his first party where the boys and girls were really dressed up in their finest. The boys were of an entirely different type from what he had been used to associating with. Somehow Jimmie managed to become accustomed to them and their mannerisms. It seems that Jimmie possessed that certain quality that enabled him to adapt himself to almost any type of environment.

It was at this first party that he learned many new and startling facts. He heard of how his new friends had been as far away as New York and Cleveland. Jimmie stood with mouth wide open in amazement as they spoke about their travels and adventures. He hardly dared believe them even as they were told, yet he knew they spoke the truth.

As the party went on and the conversation continued Jimmie spoke of his travels and of how he was lost on Lake Erie during a terrible storm. This increased his prestige among the younger set. As the talk continued, it finally drifted onto the subject of books and the best reading on the market. This was more along Jimmie Curwood’s line and so he listened attentively as some young lady led the discussion. At long last he had the opportunity he had been seeking. So he told of his career in writing thus far, and how he so wanted to develop his talent into an advanced study. Many of the others wanted to write but hardly knew how to get started. Jimmie explained in a modest manner his eagerness to write great works some day, too.

It was at this party that Jimmie acquired his new name. He was no longer called Jimmie, but just “Jim.” It was here, also, that the young man attempted to learn to dance with the aid of a very charming little lady. He later admitted that although he felt clumsy and ill at ease, he enjoyed it all immensely. Throughout his later life, however, Jim Curwood had little time for dancing.

Thus began Jim Curwood’s social life in Wakeman, and at first he took full advantage of it, for it was indeed truly social as compared to that which he had heretofore been accustomed.

There were many new things that Jim was going to have to learn if his social and everyday life in Wakeman were to be successful. Throughout his life he had been under the constant guidance of his devoted mother. She had cared for his personal appearance and insisted that he always keep himself as clean as possible. But in this new environment he learned that he must look after his personal appearance himself. He also learned that one’s personal appearance and habits counted first and foremost. He discovered that he must wear a tie. He found that he must wear presentable clothing to school instead of the farm clothes. He had to keep his hair trimmed and his teeth brushed. The things which had before seemed utterly trivial now were of major importance to his new life in the city of Wakeman.

Perhaps the most exasperating discovery which young Jim Curwood made shortly after he had moved into Wakeman with his family, was the fact that he must take more than one bath per week. So instead of the usual Saturday night affair, the young man found himself in the tub as often as three times a week. He hated it all.

As his new life opened before him Jim discovered that there were girls in Wakeman. The startling fact was that he found they were very pretty girls, too. Coincident with this discovery came the necessity for a little spending money from time to time if one were to get along. So, from the first time that he met one of Wakeman’s better type girls, he was constantly in need of nickels or dimes. Soon his financial problems developed to the stage where Jim was asking for quarters instead of nickels and dimes, as is only natural when a young boy begins to get “ideas.”

As Valentine Day approached, Jim met a very pretty girl whom he decided he would like to present with a Valentine. Although the tiny card cost but three cents, Jim was somewhat bashful and backward in giving it to her when the time came. So he mailed it out the day before and signed only his scrawled initials upon the back of it. Somehow the memory of his Jeanne back on the farm seemed to have slipped from his mind, for this new young lady filled his every waking hour.

As he and his new girl friend became better acquainted Jim thought he should take more than three baths a week and in a short time he was to be found in the tub almost every night. Another thing which was called to his attention was that he should always keep his fingernails clean, that a tie should always be worn, and above all that he should keep his shoes blacked every day without fail. Mother Curwood as well as her husband had noticed the tremendous change that had come over their young offspring and were pleased by it. Their coming to Wakeman seemed to be proving itself worthwhile.

In a few short weeks arrived that which young Jim Curwood had been looking forward to with great anticipation—the beginning of the fall term in the school to which he had traveled so far and on which so many of his hopes were based. Here Jim became interested in something which was to remain with him all the days of his life—Astronomy.

Through the teachings of this new subject Jim developed an entirely different conception of God. He came to know and to realize then that God had created this earth as a center of things, and that we were most fortunate to have been chosen to live upon it. He believed then that God had created all this for mankind alone, that man was everything. That the birds, the beasts of the wilds, and the fish of the streams did not matter. He believed then, as so many millions do today, that those creatures were put here just for man to slaughter if he so desired....

Winter came and passed all too soon for Jim and it was not until spring arrived that he learned of his family’s plans to leave Wakeman and return to the farm. He also made the startling discovery at this time that he had not learned much more here than he had back at the little red brick schoolhouse. True, he had learned city life and all of its startling realities, but it was the little red school house back there in the country that he yearned for.

When but one more week was left for the Curwood family to remain in Wakeman, brother Ed came into town with the team and wagon, while Mr. Curwood made all final preparations. Talk of the farm, the fields and the streams had turned Jim’s thoughts entirely to the open spaces once again.

With Ed and his father riding along on the wagon, Mrs. Curwood followed along behind in the buggy. Jim had still other ideas since Ed had brought his dog Jack along. So for most of the eight long, dusty miles, Jim and his faithful hound Jack played and walked behind the caravan.

It has always been said that early impressions in life bear greatly upon one’s future. So it was then in Jim Curwood’s case. His life on the farm as a child taught him more and more the love of the open roads and the forests. For on that day when the family returned to their farm, eight miles distant from Wakeman, Jim exclaimed:

“Gosh Mom, it’s great to be back home again! The woods are so full of wild flowers, and the old pond is crowded with big, old frogs, too.”

Skinny Hill, having heard from Ed that the family was once more going to return to the neighborhood, had been on the watch for his pal Jim since shortly after daybreak. And hardly had the creaky old wagon and buggy rounded the bend in the road than Skinny was running for all he was worth to meet his chum. In his left hand was an old, black felt hat which he was waving wildly above his head, as he shouted and whistled.

“Hello, Slip! Hello there, Slip!”

The two youngsters did not even shake hands or clasp each other in their arms. Instead they both just stood there in the middle of the dusty road with wide grins.

“My gosh, you’re home, ain’t you?” Skinny spoke breathlessly.

“Yep!”

With those few words Jim and Skinny started walking up the road behind the buggy and wagon.

During the following three days Skinny and Jim were running all over the surrounding territory looking over together what they had claimed to be their own several months before. Through the wooded strips and across the fields they went, taking in all the glory of “secret country.”

Through all of the busy and crowded months in Wakeman Jim had almost forgotten the one person who was more important to him in his young life than any other. But hardly had he set foot in the front yard of the old farm than he saw her. Immediately his pulse quickened. It was lovely Jeanne, his “Whistling Jeanne.”

The very first thing which he noticed was how tall she had grown during his absence, and her stunning beauty spun his senses about wildly. He could hardly believe what his eyes revealed.

“Something queer happened to my heart when she caught me up in her arms and kissed me. My Jeanne was changed.”

In a few minutes Jeanne had once again won her old place back in his heart. That feeling of security and comfort was his, as it had been before, now that he had his Jeanne back to console him during those times when things went wrong.

Hardly had the family a chance to really settle down again than Jim was once more beginning to write.

In the town of Wakeman he had become acquainted with a motherly old lady who had thought a great deal of him. So much so, in fact, that when he asked her for some of her old magazines, she not only complied with that request, but also went to the nearest drugstore and purchased a “dozen brand new ones” for him.

There on the little farm when his daily chores were over, Jim would sit out under the trees with Jeanne and Skinny, and pore over the contents and the wonderful stories by famous authors. The smouldering flame that was embedded within his heart for adventure stories and the yearning to write them was overpowering.

It is seldom that a boy of young Jim Curwood’s age should take so great an interest in such a mature profession. But he seemed to be able to look into the future and almost say what was going to take place, so confident was he. It seems almost uncanny that a young lad could have such a vivid imagination and at the same time learn to put it into words and story form. But a great deal of Jim’s success can rightfully be credited to Jeanne Fisher. Obviously this is true, for throughout his entire literary career, the character and the beauty of “Whistling Jeanne” was always there.

She used to tell him that he must write harder than ever and then some day he could put her into his stories.

If only she could know how many times, hundreds of times in fact, she really was written into his stories. Who knows? Perhaps she does.

So, as the sun began to set over the two little farms in the peaceful Ohio valley on that first evening of Jim’s return, it once again found Jeanne and Jim together. And as the evening wore itself into the darkness of night time, Jeanne refrained from talking of his future authorship, but upon subjects instead which were more vital to her. She had not stopped to realize that during his stay in Wakeman her Jim had become more and more entrenched in the path of becoming a famous writer of tales. As the night began to grow long Jim at last began pouring out his heart to her, and then Jeanne Fisher realized only too well that to talk of anything else save writing was a hopeless task.

Jim explained to her how he had lingered over the many new magazines that he had seen in Wakeman; how he idolized the printed names of the famous authors whose articles and stories he had read. He told of how his heart beat just a little faster as he completed reading each new story. How he had read and reread every story in every magazine that he could put his hands on. Little did he realize it at the time, but he was developing a style all his own through all this extensive reading that was later to lead him to fame. He even became breathless as he explained how his heart had missed a beat every now and then as he read those adventure stories. Tales of Indian scouts, strong, brave cowboys, and fearless Indian chieftains. Stories of dauntless seamen who sailed the seven seas unafraid in search of gold and silver.

“Whistling Jeanne” Fisher realized to the utmost that night that “literature was the guiding star of his destiny.” She came to realize also that nothing save death would stop the young, yet determined, Jim Curwood. He had it in him to write, he had something to say and to tell about, and she knew that some day he would get his chance to tell it. Either he would get his chance or he would make that chance.

Like most men of literature, a writer must have something to say, something to tell. From the age of eight, Jim Curwood had a story to tell and he always did his best to tell it in an unsurpassed manner. His courage in the face of great odds is indeed commendable.

The character of “Whistling Jeanne” has played the major roles in most of Jim Curwood’s short stories, serials and novels. Her character and her beauty were, above all else, inspirational and courageous.

The character of Melisse in “The Honor of the Big Snows,” Josephine Conniston in “The River’s End,” and Jeanne in “The Flower of the North,” are just a few of the heroines for whom her lovable character has been responsible. These novels have been filmed and flashed on the movie screens throughout the world, and his novels have been translated and written into over fourteen different languages. “Whistling Jeanne” Fisher’s character was truly an important part in Jim Curwood’s childhood days.

With all of the words of hope, courage, inspiration and wisdom which came from those “rareripe lips,” how could Jim go wrong? How could he help but to succeed? For even in his childhood days he was constantly filled with inspiration, hope and above all else, confidence. For with those words of encouragement the boy firmly planted his feet and vowed earnestly that nothing save death could ever keep him from becoming a great author. An author whose works would give to the people of the world hope and courage to push onward. Today, nearly fifty-seven years later, those works which he spoke about at the age of thirteen have given hope and courage to many millions of people throughout the entire world.

There is little doubt but that those early childhood days on the farm down in Ohio were the days which proved invaluable in the shaping of Jim Curwood’s destiny.

CHAPTER FOUR
 
OWOSSO SCHOOLDAYS

Day after day while on long hikes through the forests and along the river’s banks, Jim Curwood would try valiantly to explain to his chum, Skinny, the urge and desire that was burning constantly in his heart. Unfortunately enough, Skinny Hill could not see things in quite the same light as Jim did and consequently he raised argument after argument. At times when he would grow tired of hearing Jim talk about a writing career he would very nearly lose his temper.

Fortunately, Jim Curwood had the ambition and the determination to be a writer and no one on the face of God’s green earth could stop him. The youngster actually prayed for the opportunity to go to great schools. He prayed for the one chance, the lone chance, of really becoming a “somebody.”

“I knew with God beside me that my goal could not be too far off. Hard work, and hard work alone, with confidence in the Great Arbiter, are the keys to success.”

From that time on Jim Curwood did all in his power in order that he might pave his own way to success.

Valiantly he fought the odds that were stacked against him, determined to make the grade and come through with flying colors. However, at times he would lose all hope. Then for a moment, he would stop and think about defeat and what it would mean. The next moment would find him back at work, his determination multiplied a hundred times over. It seems miraculous that such a young lad of Jim Curwood’s age could not be kept down in his battle for success at the one thing in life he wanted.

As days developed into weeks and weeks into months, it dawned more and more on the boy that unless he went away somewhere to study, it would be a hopeless task to try to be a “somebody.” It is quite plain that his mind was much more developed than his age revealed.

Like manna from heaven, his sister Amy, from Michigan, came down to visit the family a few days later. Jim thanked his lucky stars, for he realized only too well that his sister not only could help him, but would be most glad to. His young and adventurous mind began working rapidly from the very first day that Amy arrived on the farm. He felt that with Amy’s influence it might be possible for him to go away to school. For several days and nights he thought the situation over before he put the question to his sister. He lay awake at nights thinking up various situations by which he could induce Amy to take him away with her. This was his one big chance and he knew that he must not miss it.

A few days after her arrival he called her to one side and spoke to her about his plans and his dreams. From the very beginning, Amy used a great deal of tact in handling the situation.

“Amy ... Amy, will you do me a favor?” he asked.

“What is it you want me to do, Jimmy?”

“Amy, I want to go away to school and study. I want to be a great author and the only way I can be one is to go to school!”

“Do you really want to go away to school and study, Jimmy?”

“You know I do, sis, oh, you know I do. I must! I just have to, Amy. Try and fix it with Mom and Dad. Please!”

“Then I shall talk to Mother and Dad and see if they won’t consent to letting you go back to Owosso with me.”

Amy lost no time in beginning her work of persuasion on Mr. and Mrs. Curwood. They objected very much when the proposition was first mentioned and Amy worked feverishly to wear them down. Apparently they wanted to keep their youngest child with them and had no intentions of letting him go all the way back to the old home town of Owosso unless they, too, went along.

Amy spent many long hours pleading with her parents to let her brother go back with her, until the last thread of resistance had been worn away and she had won her first battle for her brother. If she had only known at the time the battles she was to have to wage for him in the future!

When Amy told Jim the good news he fairly raised the roof of the farmhouse with his jubilant howls of happiness. He vowed to his parents in his own childlike manner that some day they would be very proud of him.

As the days passed by and the time neared when Jim Curwood would once again leave the little farm, he would notice tears in his mother’s eyes occasionally, despite the fact that she tried not to show them. His father became much more thoughtful, and Jack, Jim’s faithful dog who always went with Skinny and himself on their hikes through the country side, followed the boy around in an extremely strange manner. He seemed to sense in his keen, canine way that his young master was going to leave him. Little did Jim realize that the day he bade farewell to his family and to his dog Jack it would be the last he would ever see either the dog or the farm itself.

It was exactly a month to the day after the boy had gone to Owosso that the good animal died.

Never before in all of his young life had Jim Curwood hated to leave his loved ones, despite the fact that he was determined to leave. His mother cried out as her little son climbed aboard the old buckboard with his sister:

“He isn’t my little boy anymore!”

As if this wasn’t enough to bring tears to his eyes, his beloved Jeanne began crying, too. Somehow father Curwood held up even though there were tugs at his heart strings. As his youngest child climbed onto the buckboard he calmly walked up to him and shook his hand as two men would do and asked him to take good care of himself.

After a great many fond farewells, embraces and goodbyes, Amy and Jim started on their way toward Michigan, the land that seemed so far away. In the middle of the road as Jimmy looked back after they were on their way, he saw his mother, father, brother Ed, Skinny, Jeanne and the Fishers all waving farewell. A great lump swelled up in his throat for he saw his dear old mother sobbing her heart out and leaning upon her husband’s shoulder. Jeanne, too, was crying, but his old pal Skinny was too hurt to weep. He wanted to, but somehow tears would just not come.

The last words Jim Curwood heard before the little buckboard was out of hearing distance was from Skinny who was standing in the middle of the hot, dusty road, shouting and waving.

“Goodbye, Slip. Gee, I’ll never see you again.”

It was a long, hard and exciting trip as Jimmy and Amy made their way in the buckboard drawn by two fine horses to the then small town of Owosso. The young lad was tingling with excitement at the prospects of seeing his home town again. The town in which he was born and where he had had some wonderful days playing along the river banks. But he still was constantly thinking of his father and mother as only a young boy of his age is capable of doing.

Jim had been away from Owosso for nearly seven years now, and as they drove past the city limits he hardly recognized it as the same place. It seemed to have grown a great deal and many new buildings had been erected. The bumpy old streets of old had been worked over and now were comparatively smooth.

Unable to wait until the following day to see his home town again, Jimmy persuaded Amy to take him around the day of their arrival.

One of the first things he noticed was that his old home had been transformed into a hotel. And the room in which he had been born was now a room for drummers and salesmen. There were no hickory trees growing in the streets, there were no fowls roaming about at will as they once did, and giant pines and willows which once had filled the great commons were replaced by stores and buildings.

Today the city of Owosso has 15,000 residents, and is more beautiful than it was in the days of old. Looking out of the studio windows of a wonderful writing castle which lies along the banks of the waters of the Shiawassee river, there can be seen one place that shall never be shed of the willows that wave so gently in the breeze. It is the little island in the very center of the river which flows through Owosso in a great sweeping bend. The willow trees on this small island bend their graceful boughs almost down to the water’s edge and sway back and forth continually in the cool morning and evening breezes.

Days passed rather rapidly after Jimmy returned to Owosso and the hottest days of summer were soon upon the little town. The natural thing for him to do was to look up his childhood pals and head for the river to fish and to swim. But try as he might, Jimmy could find nothing of his former Owosso pal, Charley Miller. It seemed that since Charley’s father had passed away no one had seen anything of the boy.

Perhaps the one thing which Jim loved above all else in his home town was the beautiful Shiawassee, glorious river of his childhood dreams, that flowed in graceful curves throughout the length of Owosso constantly beckoning him to its banks to swim and fish.

Owosso itself had prospered, of that there was little doubt. And its people had changed with the influx of prosperity. But to Jim Curwood it was home and when he grew older he was overheard to say:

“Many ties bind me to it and always I return there, no matter into what little-known byways of the world I wander. In Owosso I shall end my journey.”

J.C. WEBER.

It took young Jim just a couple of days to become readjusted to his old home town and again “Sparkling Waters” lured the youthful outdoorsman to its banks. This was the place where Charley and he had played before he had moved away to Ohio. The place where they hunted, trapped, fished and swam along its peaceful shores. There is little wonder why he always referred to it not only as “Sparkling Waters,” but also as his “river of dreams.” For it was along the banks of this river that many of his childhood dreams developed into realities and where he learned his first lesson about nature and the wilds he learned to love so well. It was here that the many stories that ran rampant in his childish mind later flowed from his pen.

The third day of his return found him with a pole and line headed for the river to fish. In those days he would lay his pole over his shoulder with the line dangling down and stroll through town barefooted. A typical “Tom Sawyer,” if the city of Owosso ever saw one.

His bare feet would saunter along the pavement but would step lightly when he came to cindered paths. He wore an old hat slouched down upon his sun-bleached hair which had no crown in it whatsoever. His pants-legs were torn and frayed and his shirt-tail was out in the back as always. Those truly were the glorious days of childhood.

During the first days of his return with his sister Amy, young Jimmy spent many hours along the river banks and pulled out a great deal of fish. Many people often remarked that if he did not let up on his fishing there soon would be no fish in the river for other people.

After a week had elapsed Amy told Jim that she was taking him to visit the great newspaperman, Fred Janette. You may speak of surprises, but Jim Curwood was just about the most surprised and thrilled young man in all of Michigan when his sister broke the good news to him. Who had not heard of the great Fred Janette? He himself had even read one of his newspaper serials. Now, at long last he was going to meet a famous writer! The young lad was thrilled beyond all explaining. In fact, he hardly dared believe it. It did not seem at all possible. But sister Amy had told him and so therefore it must be true. The young boy could hardly wait for the important day to arrive.

The day arrived for the visit and Amy took her young brother to the wonderful home of Fred Janette, author and newspaperman. It seemed wonderful to Jim, but in reality Mr. Janette’s home was a modest one. It was an old fashioned cottage. To Jim Curwood it was the home and mansion of a king. Soon would come the moment when he would step across the threshold, he thought. He walked nervously up the winding concrete walk with his sister. The doorbell was rung and soon they were greeted by a tall, whiskered Frenchman whom Jim later came to love devoutly. Then they were confronted by a white-headed, kindly old lady who was the mother of the great author. From that day on Mrs. Janette always held a warm spot in his heart.

After they had been admitted to the house sister Amy chatted and laughed with Mrs. Janette and it seemed strange to Jim that she was not in the least bit awed by these famous personalities, even though he was.

It was ages before a door swung open and the “great writer” himself entered. Being the gentleman and scholar that he was, Janette immediately shook hands with the boy as if he had known him all his life. Knowing that he would have to be very careful in what he said, lest he offend the youngster, he exclaimed:

“So this is our young author!”

From that moment on, Jim Curwood was sold on Fred Janette as Mr. Janette was on young Mr. Curwood.

As soon as the introductions were over, Janette promptly took Jim by the hand and led him into his den. Then he locked the door behind them. As the key turned in the lock, the youngster was so thrilled that he could hardly speak. For the first time he was actually looking at a real author’s study. True, it was just like any other author’s studio, but this was the first that Jim had ever been in. The walls were lined with books, there were two typewriters, reams and reams of paper upon which to write wonderful stories, and numerous filing cabinets in which to file material. He took in everything from the floor up to the ceiling. He had never seen anything that thrilled him so in all his life.

Behind the closed door. Fred Janette showed the aspiring young writer a cheque for three hundred dollars that the editor of Golden Days Magazine had sent him for one of his latest creations. This, of course, seemed like a million dollars to Jim and he gasped at the sight of it. Then Janette proceeded to explain to him just what his regular daily schedule was, how he went about doing his work and even showed him a story he was working on for a certain magazine.

Janette invited Jimmy to sit down at his desk and use the typewriter if he so desired. This seemed to the boy to be a great honor; he walked over to the large desk and sat down upon the chair. And as he sat there looking over the mass of papers and manuscripts, Janette told him:

“You cannot help but become successful if you put your whole heart into your writing.”

Perhaps the one thing which the youngster appreciated more than anything else about Janette was the fact that the grown man was careful not to treat him merely as a child.

From this very first meeting there arose between the two a friendship that was to last a lifetime. From that moment on, James Oliver Curwood never ceased writing. Every second that was available was spent with a pencil or pen in his hand, for writing had taken complete possession of him and it all but drove him frantic as his mind was continually upon the work that was destined to become his only life work. He had to eat and sleep, but he must also WRITE! WRITE! WRITE!

At last, though all too soon, summer had come to a close and school days were once more at hand. He enrolled in Central School the very first day, but he could not understand why he had come all the way from the farm in Ohio to go to school here in Owosso, and still find it so very uninteresting. The chances are, however, that the writing “bug” had become his first and only love, thus making it quite difficult for him to study. Perhaps one of the factors which seemed to make Jim Curwood’s schooling both uninteresting and hard was the class he was placed in when he entered school in Owosso. For he was put in the seventh grade because of his ungentlemanlike feats at Wakeman and his vulgar tactics under Mrs. Bacon. Obviously this was not the rating he deserved, but the teachers at Central School seemed to think it best. They did not know young Curwood was returning to school “to study.”

This of course was a very bad beginning when one has made up one’s mind that he really wants to be someone, and young Jim was indeed very much “burned up over this treatment.” Despite this barrier, he “muddled through somehow,” as he chose to put it, until he had finished the tenth grade.

Many times, according to authoritative sources, Jimmy Curwood was referred to as “a hopeless horror” in Algebra, by a Miss Curliss. A Miss Needles always maintained that Jim Curwood was hopelessly dumb and could never be any other way. Then there was a small man by the name of Chaffee who once remarked that the boy’s empty mind was the outstanding feature of the Owosso schools. The Miss Curliss was perhaps Jimmie’s greatest dread. Time and time again she embarrassed him before the entire class. On one particular occasion she called him an “unforgettable horror in her mind,” when Jim staunchly maintained that a “skipper” was a bug in cheese rather than the master of a ship.

There was but one bright spot in all of Jim’s schooling in Owosso, and that was a very pretty and charming teacher named Miss Boyce. Despite the many mistakes he would make in class she never lost patience with him and was always encouraging and cheerful. Years later when the “plague of Owosso” became a full grown man and an author in his own right, he remarked:

“To Miss Boyce and Miss Bartrem, who never lost interest in me, is due what little I actually did accomplish there.”

Then, too, there was the principal of the school, Professor Austin by name. He was a kind and understanding man and he sympathized with Jim in his goings and comings up and down the Shiawassee river, even though he did not approve of it during school hours. The principal once told him bluntly that if he ever heard of a prize for stupidity in the classroom, he would see that it was awarded to him. It was such things as these, trivial as they may seem to some of us, that made Jim Curwood’s early schooldays in Owosso ones of endless terror and seemingly hopeless failure.

When at last the fall season was over and the cold winter months were at hand when the snow would pile up as high as three and four feet deep, Jimmy would be up at the crack of dawn and out along the banks of the Shiawassee setting his traps for muskrat and mink. He would catch scores of them between the two bridges at Washington and Oliver streets. The two streets were a little over a quarter of a mile apart, and were in the very heart of the residential section, as they are even today.

By the time his second school year began the “Sparkling Waters” had absolutely claimed him. In his possession he had countless traps, several guns and an Indian dugout canoe.

Actually being of Indian-strain himself, it is little wonder that Jim Curwood haunted the lakes, streams and wilds. His maternal grandmother had been a full-blooded Mohawk Indian princess. This was, perhaps, a prime factor in his urge to isolate himself in the wilderness which had left its imprint embedded deep in his heart. But he was also a direct descendant of Captain Frederick A. Marrayat, world famous novelist and seaman, and Jimmy’s paternal grandfather.

So it is understandable how, of all the students at Owosso public schools, perhaps the most difficult and indignant one was James Oliver Curwood. When he was not present in school he was either writing tales of the wilds, or living them along the banks of the rivers nearby. In fact he had absented himself from classes on many occasions to devote more time to his stories. Jim Curwood finally developed into a real problem for his teachers in high school.

One day as he quietly came tip-toeing to his seat while Professor Austin was in the middle of an invocation, the teacher caught sight of him and completed what he had to say with: “And dear Lord, we thank Thee for returning Nimrod safely to us this morning.” From that day forward his nickname at school was “Nimrod.”

It was during the first winter of his return to Owosso that Jim received an important letter from his father in Ohio. The elder Curwood wrote that, unless he could find some way to get back to Owosso to make a living, he, Jimmy, would have to come back to the farm. His mother missed him terribly and yearned to have her baby son back in her home.

Both sister Amy and Jim were overjoyed. But the young boy was torn between love and duty. The little farm was tugging at his heartstrings once more as were his “Sparkling Waters” here in Owosso. Still, he had his duty to his parents to consider, and if they remained on the little farm, he just could not make up his mind what he preferred to do.

The letter from his father had brought back memories that heretofore he had tried to conceal. Now he yearned for the old farm, his dog Jack, his parents and last, but far from least, Jeanne and Skinny. But he loved his Owosso and its surroundings, he loved his river and his wilderness with a burning, flaming passion. What was he to do? Sister Amy simply told him to wait until they saw how things were going to shape up.

From that time on until the arrival of spring Amy and Jim received but one letter from their parents. Then one warm, spring day in April, who should arrive at Amy’s home than Mr. and Mrs. Curwood, with Jim’s other sister, Cora. It was such a pleasant surprise.

Once again father Curwood established himself in a little cobbling shop with the front all painted a fiery red. He was taking up where he had left off eight years before.

Brother Ed had remained behind to run the farm, so that in the event that things did not go so good for his father in Owosso, the family would then have something to fall back upon.

For many years father Curwood had mended other people’s shoes in his old-fashioned way, with needles, thread and wooden pegs. One of his outstanding characteristics was that he never shirked his work and never did less than his best. Because he was the kindly old gentleman that he was, he was always held in high esteem by the townsfolk. His politeness and courteousness were appreciated by all who knew him. Many years passed since the time he had made his return to Owosso and again set up in his cobbling shop. His hair grew white from his hard work, but he always kept his head high and stood as straight as any soldier. Jim often said that no son could have had a finer father than he.

Shortly after his fifteenth birthday young Jim secured employment in Fred Crowe’s grocery store. Here he worked on Saturdays and earned fifty cents for his day’s labor. At this time in his life this small sum seemed like a small fortune.

Work or play, as he chose, the young aspiring writer always found time to hide away to do his daily stint of writing that was in years to come to net him several hundreds of thousands of dollars. He loved to go where it was peaceful and quiet. It seemed that his best work always came when he was in a quiet corner of the world.

Writing as he did at this age (and that was a great deal), Jim had not as yet mustered up enough courage to send any of his stories out to the publishing houses.

The spring following the fall that Mr. Curwood and his family had moved back to Owosso to rejoin their youngest son Jim, he bought a nice little home on the one sweeping bend of the Shiawassee river in all of the town. It was a two-storied affair and from Jim’s room upstairs he would sit and look out over the river and commons that were filled with some of the most beautiful trees in all of Michigan.

Shortly after moving to the new house, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood outfitted their writing son with a desk and a table for his own room, as well as a second hand Caligraph typewriter. At last Jim had his own study, his own private study. The young lad felt that he was now on an equal basis with the great writer Fred Janette and proceeded to decorate his room in much the same manner as Mr. Janette’s.

Here he knew that he could work without interruption and fear of being disturbed. Here he could lock the door and write as much and as long as he wanted to.

Just outside the window below him as he sat at his desk was his river, flowing gracefully and silently along as it made its way in a final sweeping bend before entering the surrounding wilds. The thought that entered Jim’s mind when he first sat down to write was: “Surely I can get an inspiration here!”

Time quickly passed by, and as time flew, so did young Jim Curwood’s stories. For just as fast as he would complete one story on the second-hand typewriter, he would begin another one.

One of the most enjoyable things to him at this age was after the supper hour, when his family would gather around him and listen as he read his newly-written stories of adventure. Actually his elders were almost spellbound at their son’s accomplishments. Every story that the young lad wrote was indeed good, his parents readily agreed, even though there would be an exceptionally exciting one occasionally. Many are the times that Mrs. Curwood would remark to her neighbors how her son, Jimmy, was progressing in his chosen work. And even as quiet a person as his dear old father was, he, too, broke down every now and then to praise what his youngest child was doing.

“Fine, Jimmy boy, that’s fine!”

Throughout the preceding seven years Jim Curwood’s interest in writing and literature had never abated. Now, at fifteen, the thrill and enjoyment of his chosen life work was surging through his veins at a much greater rate of speed. Now he had a typewriter on which to write his stories instead of scrawling them on wrapping paper with a dull pencil. Writing was a part of him. It would have been an impossibility for him to have given it up, even if his very life had depended upon it. For Jim Curwood was certain, even at that adolescent age, that Jim Curwood would become a great writer.

Despite the fact that he had not mustered up enough courage to submit any of his stories to editors, he knew that he must continue pounding a typewriter or “die the death of a lost soul.”

Long before the Curwood family moved to the new home on John Street on the bend of the river, young Jimmy used to collect all sorts of wrapping paper and cut it into sheets of standard size in order to keep his work in good shape. Then he would write his stories out in crude fashion and once he had completed them would bind them together to make a compact volume. As a matter of fact, Jim would often set his stories down on anything that would make itself available. As a result of all those prodigious hours of writing as a child there are literally thousands and thousands of manuscripts filed away in neat stacks in the bottom of his writing studio today.

The first story of Jim Curwood’s to appear in print was entitled “The Fall of Shako,” which appeared in the Owosso paper, The Argus. The unusual feature of this first appearance in print was that “The Fall of Shako” took young Jim much longer to write than any of his other stories.

The story was accepted by George Campbell, who at that time was the editor and owner of The Argus, and he published it with Jim’s by-line in bold type directly below the title. No payment was made for its publication, but at that time Jim thought little, if at all, of remuneration.

Living in Owosso then was a man named Dave Joplin who, for some unknown and mysterious reason, disliked Jim’s father. With the publication of the story with the by-line, JAMES CURWOOD, in bold type, he believed he saw the opportunity he had been anxiously waiting for. He did not realize that Mr. Curwood had a son by the same name, and was mistakenly under the impression that the author was none other than the subject of his dislike.

With calm deliberation Dave Joplin sat down with his pen flaming hot and wrote harsh criticism of “The Fall of Shako.” This he sent directly to the office of The Argus.

He termed the story an insult to the intelligence of the people of the community and one composed of childish drivel.

Publisher George Campbell, sensing the possibilities of the joke, published the “flaming letter of criticism” on the front page of The Argus. Instantly it boomed back in the form of hundreds of letters and postcards from angry and outraged citizens, who protested vehemently against a man like Joplin attacking the young writer. Realizing his mistake, Joplin promptly offered apologies, but the public was up in arms over the silly, idiotic outburst of a full grown man.

Shortly thereafter Fred Janette heard of the incident and immediately took to Jim’s rescue through the press itself. He wrote that Joplin had shown himself to be a superlative ass and that his own egotistical self-centered nature would be his downfall. At the same time the citizens of Owosso took up the battle in favor of young Jim. By the hundreds, letters of opinion flooded into the office of The Argus.

Because the editor of a small town newspaper had seen fit to publish a short story by one of the town’s citizens, the miracle had occurred and the young writer was beginning to receive publicity that he had not expected in his wildest dreams to come to him so soon. His name and the story concerning him was being printed on the front page of every large newspaper throughout the country. It was more than state news now, for it contained color and adventure that millions of people enjoy.

As days went by Jim began receiving congratulatory mail from all parts of the country. All this, because of the publication of one apparently mediocre story. But it was doing him more good than he realized at the time. He was getting his name before the public as a writer and that in itself was worth its weight in gold.

It was not long before the Detroit Journal asked for a contribution. Naturally it was quite a surprise for the growing boy and when this happened he saw his chances for success suddenly rise to new heights.

“The Fall of Shako” was written November 2, 1894. It was published in The Owosso Argus on November 21 of that year.

The day before publication of that wonderful “first” of Jim Curwood’s, he had been unknown and unsung. The next day everyone in Owosso, in surrounding towns and in many states knew that James Oliver Curwood lived on John Street and that he was a writer of no mean degree. Although the Detroit Journal was the first to ask for some of Jim’s work, other papers in Detroit immediately followed suit as well as a few papers elsewhere in the state. However, as the Journal had been the first to contact him, Jim submitted a group of his tales from which two were quickly chosen. These were “Pontiac’s Last Blow” and “The Angel from Heaven.” To his amazement he received no payment for these contributions. Several days later he completed a new tale entitled, “The Girl with the Rareripe Lips and the Raven Hair,” which he promptly mailed to the Journal, and this was as promptly accepted. No payment was made for that story either. So, with renewed energy and determination, Jim took down his worn book of synonyms and dictionary and began writing with more ambition than ever before.

After a long trip to New York, Fred Janette returned to Owosso to see how his young charge was faring. He was quite surprised at the progress the young writer was making. He was not only pleased, but deeply contented. Yet, within him, Fred Janette felt that something was wrong somewhere along the line, and he decided to delve more deeply into the career of young Jim.

With careful deliberation he began reading the few published works of the young author. Hardly had he finished reading the stack of manuscripts than he immediately “yanked” the boy into his private study once more. Here he explained fully just what Jim would have to do and what he must not do. Fred Janette finally convinced Jim that he must write hard and earnestly for a long time before he could hope to receive payment for his work. It was during this session that he advised Jim to try writing a juvenile serial for experience, if for nothing else.

All during the long heavy snows of the winter of 1893 Jim sat at his desk on John Street, hammering away on his two twenty-thousand-word serials. They were entitled “The Rebel Quintette,” and “Firelock of the Range.” Today, forty-nine years later, those two manuscripts still remain in the dungeon of Curwood Castle, for they were never published.

Of these two scripts, Curwood said in later life: “These pencil-scrawled manuscripts, yellow with age, are among those I sometimes show to those whom I sincerely desire to understand what is not good writing. Neither was ever published.”

The remainder of that winter Jim kept everlastingly at his work, pounding away feverishly on the rebuilt typewriter, with the ever-present desire of having his stories published burning deep within him. His native love for writing, aided by the unceasing encouragement of his parents and Fred Janette, drove him constantly forward. For even when the young boy would grow tired Janette and Jim’s mother saw to it that the boy’s imagination was never led astray or left to linger. They saw to it that his rapidly developing brain was continually at work.

It was during the last half of his sixteenth year that Jim Curwood, young as he was, realized that he was on the right road to success. However, he did not imagine just how long and how tiresome that road would later prove itself to be.

Shortly after Jim had passed his seventeenth birthday, he began sending out his stories with fond hopes of acceptance and remuneration. These hopes were short-lived, for just as fast as he would mail the manuscripts out others would be returned with a neat pink, blue or white rejection slip attached.

Time and time again Jim had fits of despondency that all but drove both him and his parents insane. He grew to hate the very sight of one of those pink or white pieces of paper. Upon receiving a rejection slip he vowed that he would never write another line. Always within twenty-four hours he would be back at his typewriter, pounding away as usual.

Throughout all those lean, hard years of climbing slowly but surely uphill in his claim to success and fame, Jim Curwood prayed to his God for guidance and a brain that was capable of turning out a saleable story. He, like so many other authors, knew that prayer alone would never turn the trick. Everlasting persistence and staunch, bulldog tenacity must be present if success is to come.

Jim did have the foresight, however, to realize that he must work continually in order for him to achieve any minor degree of victory. And work continually he did. Always from the crack of dawn to the wee, small hours of the night he could have been found in his study, hard at work.

Curwood’s prayers during his teen age experiences were not so much that he become wealthy or famous. Nor were they for the clamoring for recognition. They were simply that people could get to read his stories. Then he would be able to write yarns that people would want to read. Publication and a ready audience were all that the young man craved.

During those times when fits of despondency would overcome him at the sight of a rejection slip, there was but one thing Jim would do. He would have his outburst of temper, take a long walk and then return to his typewriter. Unlike most writers who receive, as a rule, not more than two or three rejects in the day’s mail, Jim often got as many as twelve to fifteen. Always they seemed to come in great avalanches. This was all due to his prodigious output of words and stories.

When he would receive several of his tales back from the different publishers, Jim would merely send them on their way to different ones. He was not one to give up easily and consequently could not be whipped in his determination to succeed. The postage bill at the Curwood home as a rule varied from as little as $1.00 to as high as $3.00 and $4.00 a month. But his parents concerned themselves little at the expense for somehow they knew that the cause was a worthy one.

In due time the youthful author, who by this time had published over a dozen different stories, came to believe just what the printed rejection slip said—that rejection of a story did not necessarily mean that it was not good, but that the story was unsuited to this or that particular editor’s needs at the time.

At one time during Jim’s youthful and turbulent career, he received a printed rejection slip from Bob Davis of Munsey’s Magazine, which had the following scribbled on the bottom:

“Keep at it, kid, you’re bound to win!”

These eight words were to prove themselves priceless to Jim Curwood during the time when everything he wrote seemed to appear so black and foreboding. For it is seldom that an editor will take the time to write words of encouragement to aspiring authors. However, it seemed that Munsey’s liked Jim’s work even though it did not quite reach its standards. The kindness handed him by Bob Davis was something which the boy never forgot.

Here and there among Jim’s many files of correspondence, private papers and manuscripts are to be found many such words of encouragement from various “big time” editors of that era. Brief notes from men who knew that the young man was really a “coming big name.” It was these same notes that kept the fire burning within Jim’s heart, and drove him on when his ambition and energy lagged.

Probably one of the most amusing incidents in all of Jim’s hectic career was the first and last time he was ever guilty of plagiarism.

It seems that in Jim’s still somewhat immature career, he wanted publication so badly that he found a way of achieving it, though it was not quite an honest or ethical one. He had come across a poem that he enjoyed very much. A poem that was as old as the yellow paper upon which it had been printed. It was entitled “A Fragment,” written by the internationally famous Lord Byron. So, in his rather great haste to reach the top rung of the ladder of literary success, Jim changed the name of Byron’s poem to, “A Prayer,” and submitted it to a magazine as his own work.

Then one day, weeks later, he received a check for fifty cents from the magazine which had accepted the poem for early publication. This brought high elation to the young man even though the real thrill was lacking.

Several days after publication of the poem in the “big magazine,” the final blow to Jim’s elation came. For it seems that Fred Janette’s mother recognized the bit of verse as that of Lord Byron’s famous “A Fragment.”

“Never will I ever forget the expression that came over Mrs. Janette’s face when she saw that which I had sold to be my own.” Jim remarked in later life. But somehow she seemed to think it best not to say anything to him about it at the time. However, a few weeks later she admitted to him that she had recognized the poem to be Lord Byron’s. She was even good enough to explain to the editor of the magazine which had published it begging him not to say anything to Jim. She believed that if the magazine’s editor had accused Jim of plagiarism, a truly great career might have been shattered, hardly before it had actually begun to get a good start.

Having derived no decidedly great thrill from what he had done, it dawned on Jim that not only had he cheated himself, but had equally cheated his parents and his friends. For Mr. and Mrs. Curwood firmly believed that the published verse had actually been their son’s.

For weeks to come Jim Curwood worried and fretted over his literary crime. It grieved him to think that he had published something which had not been his own and that he had been paid for it. However, he shortly let the matter drop from his mind after vowing never to repeat the act, no matter how badly he wanted publication. James Oliver Curwood never committed plagiarism again.

In those early struggling days for James Oliver Curwood, there were such magazines on the market as The Wayside Tales, The Four O’Clock, The White Elephant, The Black Cat. To these, and to many others, Jim offered his writings. Unfortunately, they did not see fit to publish young James O. Curwood. Regardless of the rejections he usually got, he always kept Munsey’s Magazine on his list, for it had offered more encouragement and rays of hope than all the other magazines combined.

Then success, in a minor sort of way, came to young Curwood. He received a notice of acceptance from the Gray Goose magazine and $5.00 in payment.

If the neighbors had not known that a young writer lived nearby, there is little doubt but that they would have believed a raving lunatic had invaded the little house on John Street. For at sight of the check, Jim jumped and ran about the house, shouting at the top of his voice, as he waved the green piece of paper wildly above his head. And he had good reason for doing so. “Across the Range” was his first paid-for story. Heretofore he had had several of his stories published, but had never received any compensation for them. Now the “ice had been broken,” and he was on the road to success.

“If the check had been for five-thousand dollars the thrill would not have been greater,” said Jim at the time. For here was the result of ten years of mental anguish and strain; ten years of impatient, but hopeful waiting. Here was what he had been striving for. It hardly seemed true, yet there before his eyes and in his hands was the check.

For many days after this wonderful happening Jim was held in the throes of excitement, the likes of which he had never known before in all his life. At last he could call himself a professional writer. The beacons of happiness and earnestness shone bright in the teen-aged youth’s head, for at last his dream was coming true.

Feeling that he had at last struck the right chord Jim wrote hot, scorching letters to all the editors who had previously rejected his stories. Many of them replied in due time by saying, in effect, “we have never heard of the Gray Goose before.”

It was not long before young Jim began to believe many things about himself that as yet were not exactly true. He even felt himself to be on an equal status with his idol, Fred Janette. He also believed that now that fame and glory had taken a quick look at him, he should resume his normal life and turn out still more yarns. Stories which would sell many, many copies of the magazines in which they would appear. Stories that would hold their readers spellbound from beginning to end. Stories that would provide hope, inspiration and ambition to those who might have grown weary of the struggle. He wanted to write so that in his works there would be a message for all.

For a long time Jim had wanted a bicycle of his own. He had borrowed his friends’ bikes many times, but neither they nor he approved so very much of this policy. He had been saving his money in the hope of accumulating enough to purchase one for himself, but he began to realize that it would take a long, long time for him to save up the fabulous sum that a new bicycle would cost.

One day early in June of 1896, young Jim Curwood, now past seventeen years of age, had one of the most pleasant surprises of his life. Mr. Curwood bought his growing young son a bicycle all his own on which Jim was free to ride whenever and wherever he chose.

It was a grand and glorious thrill for the boy. It gave him a feeling of satisfaction and immense pride. No longer would he have to borrow a bicycle. Now he had his own, and it was the newest and best bicycle in all of Owosso.

On the very day that Jim became the proud owner of the new bicycle he began planning for a long trip. He decided, after some reflection, to travel southward.

Fortunately enough, Jim’s parents had no serious objections to his plans, so, upon completing his itinerary, he made ready to start on his travels early the following morning. His first stop would be at his cousin’s, Bert Van Ostran, seventeen miles away. Father Curwood reached down into his pocket and extracted fifty cents which he gave to his youngest boy, and then Mrs. Curwood packed him a good lunch.

After the discussion of the trip had come to an end the family prepared for bed. Jim urged his parents not to see him off in the morning, for he expected to be on his way at the first crack of dawn. The elder Curwoods doubted very strongly, however, that he would even be out of bed by dawn, let alone being well on his way peddling a bicycle. For to reach cousin Bert’s home, Jim would have to peddle over seventeen miles of the worst gravel roads. So they made no objections, slyly believing that the whole trip would come to naught.

But Mr. and Mrs. Curwood did not realize to what extent the adventure blood was surging through their son’s veins. They did not realize the yearning that Jim held in his youthful heart for the open skies where the stars shone down in glittering millions. They did not know of the love their son bore in his heart for the winding, steep trails, the blazing campfires or the countless spots along the streams where one could lie and dream upon the green turf while one’s fish pole would dangle idly in the cool green depths. No, Mr. and Mrs. Curwood did not stop to think of this. Perhaps it is better they had not known, for it might have resulted in a great and most unwelcome change in Jim Curwood. A change that might have eliminated him from the ranks of the world’s greatest adventure writers.

By the first gleams of breaking dawn as the sun awakened to start a new day, Jim Curwood was well on his way to his cousin’s home seventeen miles distant. One may only guess at the surprise that his parents must have experienced when they discovered that the boy was gone.

Jim pedaled his heart out and reached Bert’s home the same afternoon.

Hardly had he arrived than he was explaining his scheme to cousin Bert. Up until this time Jim had not spoken to anyone concerning the plan that had been hatching in his brain. From all indications it was merely to have been a short bike trip of seventeen miles and no further. Bert was in complete agreement, and that night the boys sat in Bert’s room and drew up their secret plans long after their elders had turned in for the night—plans that would open up new roads of adventure for them.

The following morning the boys were up early, and by the time the sun rose they were on their way, their bike racks loaded and their luggage tight.

As any nature lover, any adventurer or any traveler knows, there is no holding back, no barring of the path when one hears the call to nature and wildlife. There is no one to bar your path and say that you cannot go here and you cannot go there. You are free to go where you please and when you please. The passport to adventure is the love of nature.

Throughout the wanderings of the two comrades they managed to live off the land, as wanderers do. Often, being extremely fortunate, they would receive handouts consisting of fresh eggs, chicken, milk and vegetables which they consumed to their hearts’ content. But they were not without their periods of hard luck, too, for on occasions they had to run for dear life before the rage of farmers who did not particularly relish their trespassings. But all of this was to be expected, for they had chosen to live the life of adventurers and live it they did to their utter joy and sheer happiness.

It was about the middle of July that Jim and Bert decided to swing around and see as much territory as possible in the remaining time left them. Immediately they made for Ohio, into eastern Indiana, then back into Ohio and on down into Kentucky.

This being the first real trip that Jim Curwood had made thus far in his life, he felt an immense and almost inexpressible thrill when his cousin and he crossed the wide and swift Ohio river enroute to the state of Kentucky. He had never before been this far south and he enjoyed it so much that they spent several days in the “Blue Grass” state. They never remained in any other spot for more than half a day at a time.

They pedaled up long, winding trails and hills where on both sides of them were deep chasms and high cliffs, overlooking wide fertile valleys. They travelled over many miles of Kentucky’s roads and by-ways, thrilling to every mile, every stone, every stream. Unexpectedly, through the kindness of an unknown sportswoman, they were given an opportunity to ride on a large steamboat which had stopped at the docks of the Ohio river. So, with their bicycles safely on board, Jim and Bert stood along the rail with their hostess as the shrill whistles blew. For several days and nights they had three square meals daily in truly luxurious style and they slept like kings in soft and downy beds. The dream, real as it was, ended when the boat docked at Louisville, and the two boys disembarked to make their plans for pedalling back to their respective homes.

Schooldays soon arrived for Jim Curwood and into the long, wide halls of Central School he strode once more. This time he was not the meek and timid beginner as of old, but one who had the air of an adventurer about him. He had also grown a great deal during the summer, his skin was tanned. His natural coal-black, straight hair was almost bleached white by the hot summer sun.

Despite the fact that he was glad to be back in school, soon the urge for the great outdoors and what they had to offer began to beckon to him stronger than before. So, outside of school hours (and those days when he would miss school altogether), his time was divided between his river and his bedroom study.

Night after night Jim constantly heard his river rushing past his upstairs window on into the wilds. Soon he found that he could not withstand the urge longer ... nature was beckoning. So he wrote a long, heart-filled letter to his old pal Skinny, imploring him to come and join him, and together they would go on one grand and glorious adventure. Many anxious days he waited until those days had developed into weeks, and still no reply came from Skinny down in Ohio. This silence puzzled Jim greatly. Surely Skinny had received his letter or else it would have been returned to him long before now.

Jim waited three or four days more before giving up all hopes of hearing from Skinny.

One day, when the spring rains had stopped and the flowers had begun to burst open in a glorious outbreaking of wonderful springtime, Jim Curwood brought home all his books and announced that school was of such minor importance to him, as compared to the material he must gather for a story for the editor of Golden Days Magazine, that he must at once dismiss all thoughts of study and head into the Big Marsh. As far as Jim Curwood was concerned now school was so much water over the dam and something which had done him little or no good whatsoever.

The urge for adventure was much more stronger than the urge to attend school, despite the fact that he had returned to Owosso from Ohio principally to go to school. But he had pondered over the situation seriously for many weeks and his mind was made up. He was heading north and nothing was going to stop him. He wanted that country so feverishly and wanted to write about it so badly that he could not and would not suppress himself further.

Fortunately enough, school in those days was a small part of one’s life. So Mother and Father Curwood did not raise much protest against their son’s wishes, even though they had hoped and prayed that he would some day go through college. Consequently Jim had very little trouble in gaining the necessary permission, although the necessity of gathering material for the editor of Golden Days was a fabrication. The editor of that magazine had never even heard of Jim Curwood....

Several days later Jim started out on his lone venture, still wondering why Skinny had never answered his letter. He was starting out into the Big Marsh Country and the “Land of the Bad” alone. Carrying his gun in one hand and his dunnage in the other, his tramping was to be a solitary one. In those days there were no automobiles and the country was low and flat. There was nothing but timberland, swamps, lakes, creatures of the wilds and the rushing white waters of the rivers.

As Jim began hiking on the first day of his trip, the sun was just beginning to peep through the trees. At the end of that day the sun was sinking behind the western horizon in a glorious burst of color. He had made something like thirty miles and he was to spend his first night out in one of the cabins of one of his swamp Indian friends and feast upon the usual meal of fried muskrat.

By sunup the following morning Jim Curwood was in the little town of St. Charles, and it was here that he rented a leaky boat.

Jim was on his way down the Bad long before most people are ready to sit down to their morning meal.

A half mile or so down the river from St. Charles, Jim entered a region supremely and gloriously wild. It was strangely and unusually quiet; and along this particular point the Bad river was very deep and wide, and all but currentless. Bordered on both sides by many types of trees: spruce, willows, jackpine, maple and beech that seemed to be bending their heads down to the water’s edge, and long entwining vines that looked as if they were just waiting to fasten their deathlike grips about Jim’s young neck. It was all mysterious and terrifying, but Jim loved it all. He loved and almost worshipped every single thing regardless of how wild and spooky it looked.