The Lumberjack Sky Pilot

by Thomas D. Whittles

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the bunkhouse, during one of the services, an old man sat in his bunk with his little nondescript dog in his lap. Loneliness was written on his deep-lined face; while the others sang he was silent.

"Don't you sing?" asked the missionary, handing him a book.

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

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