The Passing of a 

 Race 



By "Bill" Allen 



M 



INNESOTA has seen 

 the passing of a race. 

 The lumberjack is 

 gone. Not that. Minnesota's 

 pine forests are gone, nor the 

 cutting of them. But the 

 lumberjack the simon-pure 

 lumberjack like only unto 

 himself is cleaned out of the 

 big woods. 



The Passing Slow. 

 His passing has been slow, 

 his grip tenacious, but he has 

 finally succumbed. First his 

 original habitat in the Maine 

 woods was cut from around 

 him and he moved westward 

 into Michigan. There again, 

 he clung for a few years along 

 the Saginaw and then into 

 Wisconsin he was driven. 

 Finally across into Minnesota 

 and here he made his last 

 stand. There are still scat- 

 tering old grizzles here and 

 there, mourning for his fel- 

 lows, sticking around the 

 shanty growling at the brave 

 days that are gone. But he 

 has sunk to a mere "shanty 

 boss" or "bull cook" and 

 there, is rancor in his heart. 

 "Sacre," he mutters, "only 

 jabbering heathen here now," 

 and his head shakes mournfully. 



