Evening Republican, Volume 22, Number 274, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 November 1919 — IN A JAPANESE WOODMEN'S CAMP [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

IN A JAPANESE WOODMEN'S CAMP

A LAZY creek, almost currentless through salt marshes, at low tide quite deep in its muddy bed; a salty, weedy, slightly smoky, cedary, and piney smell upon the air; windrows of kelp and other weedy drift upon the slithering slope of bank; squirt of clams, In every fairly flat place, and rippling scuttle of flounders upon the bottom; drifting moons of stray medusaeluminous in the water—there is a typical woodland setting in northern British Columbia, says a writer in the Christian Science Monitor. The crow is übiquitous, not unlike a raven; beloved he is of totemic designers and carvers, from Tillamook up to Nome, calling his hoarse “caw” from the shadows of some disheveled cedar. On the high water mark of spring tides, ragged cedar and pessimisticlooking hemlock in silhouette against the sunny blue, purple-courses with raven-like shadow the distant mountain side. At the base of the irregularly standing timber, spared of loggers, an impenetrable thicket of sallal, salmon and button berry, blackberry bramble and whortle berry, under a taller growth of alder, willow and poplar, together mask a tangle of fallen trunks and upturned roots, amid which the epilobium, the fireweed of the Pacific coast, overtops a man’s head, a spire of vibrant pinkly purple flame. At the forks of the creek, a wide eaved bunk house, its foundation posts lifting its floor well above the dampness of the marsh, stands upon a bit of ground where solid soil, washed down from the heights, supports rank grass. Rapidly built throughout of cedar, walls and roofs of split cedar shakes, in weathered redness it has a fitness to its place. Smaller shacks near, in color and size, match piles of cordwood near the water; awaiting a scow, a favoring high tide, and transportation across the water to the city. The Ever-Welcome "Chow.” A scrap of straw matting and a momentary glimpse of a short and sturdy figure, round and black of head, the bronze skin in quiet contrast with blue 'overalls, shelved it to be a Japanese woodcutters’ camp. Tlie sun was high and the shadows short by the time the sketch was finished. An eruption from the woods and cordwood piles toward the bunk-house suggested possible refreshment, if the'calling of the dish-pan, banged with a stick of firewood at the door, did not. There was too much good sketching about for the artist to want to return across the harbor for such an inconsequential thing as lunch, which, however, would quite likely suggest Its lack some time between then and the sundown he knew he would linger for. So, portfolio under arm, he strolled to the bunk house. _—•—_

Within, on were two* tiered bunks against the walls, stopping short of the further end, which, stove beneath the end window —a rear door letting in breeze and sunshine — was combined kitchen, dining room, and place of assembly. About six persons, on either side of a three-plank table covered with oilcloth, looked curiously and courteously at the stranger as he stepped within. The cook poising loaded dishes on either hand, nodded and smiled the inscrutable Japanese smile. The mention of “chow’*- brought a cheerful grin to three or four faces at once, and a welcoming indication of a seat at the end of the table, as the three on that side hunched along to make a place—deftly shifting food with them. In 10 seconds more —with a grave courtesy — was placed before the guest the usual food, each portion in a blue-and-white bowl; to him was apportioned a separate teapot and a handleless cup, both of palegreen seki-ware. Art in a Woodmen’s Camp. The artist ate and conversed. Such of these woodcutters as spoke English (and they nearly all did), spoke in measured carefulness, out of which at Intervals cropped a “Chinook” word or a phrase of this coast as bold amid the careful English as a single dark cedar in a green meadow. Looking about, the guest noted a print on the bunk house wall. He got up and walked across to get a better view.

He knew little and cared less of names and dates familiarly spoken by parlor talkers on Japanese art, but he did feel decorative values, color and drawing, and all the rest of it —whatever it is, in short, that makes the Japanese print so Interesting. This had they all, he said, as he returned to his seat. His auditors were visibly pleased, though with the reserve characteristic of their kind ; the artist’s neighbor pointed at his portfolio, and interrogated: “You make’picture too, maybe?” and evoked admission. “You show us.” Sundry sketches of things and places' near brought ' smiling sidewise comments of recognition, but most of all a single sketch of fir tops, dark above a morning mist, with the misty prow Of a boat and the oncoming ripple of an easy tide, attracted attention. This was appreciatively passed from hand to hand, and one said: “Now we show you, maybe you like?” “Kinship of the Pastel. ~ From one bunk and another came curious wraps of mats and cloths, out of which again came a finely made box or roll, exposing in turn a silken bag, holding carven, founded, or wrought treasures, a kakemono wrapped in a fragment of temple silk, or a couple of shingles keeping flat between them prints of modern photographs of Japan. Presently the table, cleared of dishes and food with approving consideration, was an exhibition field on which one and another, singly, and seriously smiling, displayed his treasure for the guest’s delight. Half a dozen prints of samurai, a famous actor, a geisha, a landscape, and a couple of utter decorative abstractions, each slowly produced and lingered over, were inter* spersed with bits of cast and carved bronze, iron, carved ivory, kakemonos of two or three types, and even a bit or two of pottery and cloisonne. The noon period went swiftly, protracted though it was far beyond its regular length, and ended with slow reluctance and a smiling invitation to the departing guest to “come-see again soon.” Through the length of the afternoon and the years since there has lingered with the artist a satisfying sense of having met in the wilderness the fellowship of the seeing eye.

Japanese Woodcutters’ Camp in British Columbia.