The Lumberjack Sky Pilot

by Thomas D. Whittles

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

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

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

"Where is the guy? I'd like to meet him," remarked the woodsman, evidently thinking such a preacher must be an unknown variety.

"I'm the fellow," returned the missionary, "and I'll prove it by preaching in the bunkhouse tonight. What time will suit? 7:30, you say? Well, let all the boys know and come prepared to sing. That's your part of the service."

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

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

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

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

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