CHAPTER XII.

DEC. 20.—A man has just come up from the Orphans' Home with bad news. Poor Uncle S. is lost and probably frozen to death. He left the Orphans' Home to walk to the Mission a month ago and has not been seen since, although several parties have come up from the Sound. His tracks were seen by the "Flying Dutchman" on one of the forks of the Kowak in the delta. Uncle S. had our letters, so these will never reach their destination and the home folks will be disappointed. Possibly a whole year with no news from the gold-hunters of the Arctics. I suppose the body will be found when the snow melts in the spring. Uncle S. was a nice old Quaker, speaking "thee" and "thou" habitually. He spent the night with us on his way down and was very entertaining. He played a game of whist with us in the evening, and it was very odd and amusing to hear such expressions as, "Now, Joseph, play thy hand properly." "Is this my trick or thine?" "Did thee play thy ace?" etc. Uncle Jimmy, who doesn't believe in card games, tried to start an argument with Uncle S., but the latter only said very quietly, "One can play music with good or evil intentions; so I think with a simple game of whist." I never saw Mr. S. before, and it is a strange incident up here in the Arctics, to hear him tell me about my father, who, in his youth, paid some considerable devotion to a relative of his, giving me many pleasant reminiscences of both my father's and mother's families. These old-time memories, told in the dim candlelight of the peopled cabin, interested our whole company, and we all took to calling our guest "Uncle S.", as much out of respect to the man as to a possible relationship which might have existed between himself and me. But he is gone now and we shall look forward to paying him suitable ceremonies in the spring. Our undertaker is preparing to embalm the body when discovered. He was a Friend of Some note from Ohio, who drifted up here, like the rest of us "world's people," after gold.

Our camp is in quite a bustle this week preparing for Christmas. We have invited the Hanson boys up to dinner with us, and we are getting ready for a big time. The Saturday before Christmas we are to have a tree and feed all the natives in the country. The doctor has been at work on scrap picture books for the children, finding no end of beautiful chromes on the tin cans about the respective camps, besides other lithographs and steel engravings from various sources. Art is taking on shape and form and expression under the magic of the doctor's touch in a way surprising to both him and us.

The literary society last Wednesday was the best so far. Thies, of the Los Angeles Camp, read a paper on Theosophy. It was entitled, "The Home of Contentment," and was very reasonable from his point of view, and well received by all. The doctor gave a short talk on "How to Care for a Frost Bite." This was of great practical value to all present.

Dec. 21.—Forty-six degrees below zero to-day, and I, for the fun of it, walked down to the Hanson Camp. It was not at all uncomfortable, nothing like what it is when the wind blows, at ten degrees below zero. Normandin, of the San Jose cabin, has rigged up a turning lathe, using a grindstone as the driving wheel. He is turning out all sorts of things from birch and spruce. He has sent up a quantity of dolls' heads andtops for the Eskimo Christmas tree. One of the Los Angeles boys is carving faces on the dolls' heads, to distinguish which is the front side of the head, the image being of the same proportions all around. He gives them almond eyes and flat noses just like the native babies.

Now that the first snow has appeared, the natives are busy at snowshoes, and several of our boys are experimenting in the same line. The Eskimos are very expert in this kind of work, and their snowshoes are models of symmetry and neatness.

Near-by Neighbors.

The aurora is very brilliant some nights now, but there is no reason visible why, on other nights just as favorable, as far as we can discover, there is none at all. In this extremely cold weather, and especially during a sudden change of temperature, the ice in the river cracks and groans terrifically. This morning, as I was walking down to the Hanson Camp, the phenomena were very much in evidence, so much so that it was gruesome to a lonely body. At one place when I stepped off from a drift of packed snow on to the bare ice, there came a series of thundering reports like cannon shots, and then a succession of sharp reports and creaks and other awful sounds, that finally died away into the dead silence of Arctic darkness. Such combination of sounds, together with a reasonable amount of imagination sure to accompany them, is startling, especially If it is quite dark and one is all alone. Sometimes a faint crack will start others like it all around, and these in turn will give rise to a rapid fusillade extending hundreds of yards up and down the river. And there are the crunch and crackle of the dry snow under one's muckluks, emitting various modulations of sound, from the sharp bark of a dog to the squeak of a mouse. One has company even in solitude, and there can be no solitude in the world like this in the Arctics. Oh, it is all so enjoyable and fascinating to me! It is like reading a book on a new subject, for one interested in Nature to visit this country. I fear I will be sorry to leave it when the time comes. However, two years may change one's views of many things.

Dec. 29.—Four men from the Orphans' Home on their way up the river, spent last night with us, and were interesting company. One of the men, a Mr. Thornton, knows several people of Seattle and Sitka whom I know. He was at Sitka and Mt. St. Elias with the Prince Luigi party in 1897, and has an article in the "Overland Monthly" just out. He claims to have seen the Silent City, a mirage exactly resembling a distant view of a large city. Several have seen it, and one man, a photographer whom I met at Juneau two years ago, claims to have a photograph of it. I have heard it intimated that the photo is a fake. Prof. Jordan's article on the Silent City in the March, 1898, number of "Popular Science Monthly" is to the point. Thornton says there is no doubt about photos and cuts of the mirage being unauthentic, but he affirms that he and five men of the Prince Luigi party saw it just as he describes it. We had a big discussion on mirages last night. Yesterday at the literary, my paper was on the familiar topic, "What Birds Eat." and, though rather lengthy, was well received. I think our men would be interested in almost any paper that discussed the subject of eating. Dr. Gleaves lectured a week ago on the "Cruise of the Revenue Cutter 'Bear' in 1893." He was surgeon on board of her during that year. He is now president of the Hanson crowd,—more properly speaking, "The Kotzebue Mercantile and Trading Company,"—just as we of the "Penelope" gang are the "Long Beach, Alaska, Mining and Trading Company." How bulky and pompous that sounds! If we do not find a bit of gold while we are here, we shall have the satisfaction of presuming ourselves to be one of the best equipped companies on the Kowak, and are looked up to very much as the Vanderbilts are in New York. Sense of such distinction as tills tends to increase the size of our heads, which are really very large indeed, when considered in their covering ofwool hood, canvas hood, scarf, etc. We are advised to enjoy these sensations while it is feasible, as doubtless when we reach the wharf at San Francisco or San Pedro on our return trip we may have to foot it home just like common tramps, or prodigal sons who have wasted their substance and that of our grub-stakers in "riotous living."

On Christmas, day of all days, didn't we have a "spread"! C. C. worked at it for a month beforehand and even stayed up all the night previous cooking and compounding. I suppose he will have forty pages about it in his diary, for although he worked until he was exhausted, he declares it the happiest occasion we have had. And the results of all our labor were really immense.

Christmas Dinner.

The ten Hanson boys and a Mr. Van Dyke dined with us. The table was twenty feet long, covered with a snow-white cloth, and lighted by two candelabra of eight candles each.

These beautiful articles of use and ornament were made by Clyde from a many branched birch, and the effect in lighting our large cabin was brilliant. The menu was gotten up by Rivers. It was a sketch of the landscape around our cabin artistically done in India ink on thin leaves of birch bark, and would have graced any table in New York.

I never sat at a table in New York, but I just know they never had a handsomer menu card. The toasts were classic, and included a poem by Dr. Coffin, which was also of a classical character. I cannot refrain from quoting one or two stanzas of the latter, on account of their sentiment as well as literary merit. The verses were well received and delivered with startling effect.

Now just a few things I would like to sayTo make us remember this Christmas Day—It isn't very often you dine with a Coffin,When the cook and baker is an undertaker.Now and again on a bill of choice fareYou find such a dish as roasted black bear;But outside of the valley of the Kowak riverYou will not eat pate de poisson de liver.[A]Or white Touste bake and Ukluk roastAre rarely served without Antic frost.On these hot mince pies there have been no flies,For our pastry-maker is an undertaker, etc., etc.Now on your memories we would make a markWith a plain, simple piece of brown birch bark;On one side a picture of the place we are at.And a list of the stuff that we ate as we sat.

Now just a few things I would like to sayTo make us remember this Christmas Day—It isn't very often you dine with a Coffin,When the cook and baker is an undertaker.

Now just a few things I would like to say

To make us remember this Christmas Day—

It isn't very often you dine with a Coffin,

When the cook and baker is an undertaker.

Now and again on a bill of choice fareYou find such a dish as roasted black bear;But outside of the valley of the Kowak riverYou will not eat pate de poisson de liver.[A]

Now and again on a bill of choice fare

You find such a dish as roasted black bear;

But outside of the valley of the Kowak river

You will not eat pate de poisson de liver.[A]

Or white Touste bake and Ukluk roastAre rarely served without Antic frost.On these hot mince pies there have been no flies,For our pastry-maker is an undertaker, etc., etc.

Or white Touste bake and Ukluk roast

Are rarely served without Antic frost.

On these hot mince pies there have been no flies,

For our pastry-maker is an undertaker, etc., etc.

Now on your memories we would make a markWith a plain, simple piece of brown birch bark;On one side a picture of the place we are at.And a list of the stuff that we ate as we sat.

Now on your memories we would make a mark

With a plain, simple piece of brown birch bark;

On one side a picture of the place we are at.

And a list of the stuff that we ate as we sat.

[A]Pie of fish liver.

This is by no means the whole of the poem, but it is enough to intimate its character. It is Christmas and we are ice-bound. The day of all the days in a man's life, when he would naturally be blue, has been mutually cheered by those who, but for this digression, would have suffered under the circumstances. The feast lasted for two hours, and was followed by songs and instrumental music. Cox and I were waiters, Harry Reynolds served and C. C. cooked. After the banquet we four were waited on by four of the Hanson boys, who took everything into their own hands. Normandin established himself as cook and Joe Jury as head waiter, with Hays and Jack Messing under his charge. They made a combination so witty and droll in everything they did that we could scarcely eat for a time. We finally succeeded all too well for our subsequent comfort. Fun and frolic and candies and nuts occupied attention for an hour, the party at last breaking up with the singing of several church hymns.

On Saturday before Christmas the natives were all gathered in, as well as the whites, and we served the former a "big feed," afterwards exhibiting a brilliant Christmas tree and the venerable Santa Claus. Everyone took part in contributing toys and so forth to the children. There were dolls, tops, whistles, jumping-jacks, cooky people, nuts, candy, etc. It would take a whole note book to describe this part of the Christmasfestivities on the Kowak—how the old people awkwardly tried to use knives and forks in eating, and how Santa Claus was greeted, and the wooden dolls, and all the rest. Some of the dolls fell to our boys. I am sure they reminded us of home. After the tree the natives danced, the girls in a graceful manner, and the boys representing fights or something of the kind, all the while being accompanied by a beating of tin cans, stamping and monotonous singing. There were thirty Indians and as many white men present.

At High Noon.

Jan. 7, 1899.—Last week we were surprised by what we took at first for an Arctic apparition. Uncle S., whom everyone had given up for dead, arrived, accompanied by the missionaries from Cape Blossom. Mr. and Mrs. Samms. They had come up with dog sledges. Uncle S. had brought mail from St. Michaels, and the load was very heavy, there being two hundred and fifty pounds of mail alone. He had but nine dogs, and left most of the mail at Kotzebue Camp, where the snow was too deep to travel further with it. He and Mr. and Mrs. Samms pushed on up here, and, as all were pretty tired, several of the boys volunteered to go down to the Kotzebue Camp, which is sixty miles below us, for the mail and other sled. I was a volunteer, along with several from the Hanson Camp as well as of this, as we were all anxious to get the delayed mail. But a few hours later, when we began to realize what a hard trip it would be, everyone backed down until only Cox and I were left. These boys stood on the burning deck, and made believe they didn't care, especially as that brave little missionary woman had just made a trip over the same road of more than two hundred miles and on foot.

That same day Joe Cogan and Sam Colclough came along on their way to the Allashook. They had a team of eight dogs, but, after inquiring of all the natives, they found they could obtain no more dog's food, nor is there any along the river above here. So as they were going to start back down the next day. Cox and I decided to go with them. I did not relish the anticipation of the trip at all, and, now that it is over, I must say that it is the hardest journey I ever hope to make. We returned last night, having been on foot for seven days, making one hundred and twenty miles of very, very hard walking.

We had five dogs from here; these, with Cogan's, made thirteen. We loaded our blankets and clothing on Cogan's sled and hitched up the thirteen dogs to it in a line. The sled was a very heavy one and the load resembled it. It went all right until we got on some sand-bars about a mile below the Hanson Camp, and there our trouble began. The snow was light and the heavy runners cut through to the gravel beneath, making hard pulling. We were trying our best to get over when the sled struck a rock, and, in dragging it off, two of the standards broke off at the runner. Of course we had to return, leaving the load cached on the trail. At the Hanson Camp we got some wire and necessary tools, and by this time it was afternoon. The San Jose crew of the Hanson Camp must have us stop for dinner, and it was a fine one, too, with the immediate future ahead of us. Had we not been thus refreshed. I do not think we could have made the Jesse Lou Camp that night. Colclough declared our bad luck was all on account of the dogs, thirteen in number, so we borrowed two more and also another sled. The dogs pull much better in small teams and we now made good time. They carry their bushy tails curled up gracefully over their backs, and trot along the trail with ears erect and pointed forward, the very picture of lively animation. It was three o'clock by the time we got our second start and darkness was soon upon us. Besides, it was cloudy, with no moon, and snow was falling. Light snow had fallen to the depth of four or five inches, obscuring the old trail so that we soon lost it. And then our fun began. It is twelve miles from the Hanson to the Jesse Lou Camp, and it was not until ten o'clock that we came around the bluff at the latter camp. The snow-covered river bed was a uniform blank whiteness, bordered by the dark line of willows and spruces, and whoever was in the lead had nothing to guide him but kept as near as he could between the banks.

Occasionally the sleds would meet and grapple with snags and rocks or sand-bars with little snow on them, and then we would have to strike off at right angles. Just before we reached our destination forthe night, we got into a large field of broken ice in which we floundered about for half an hour. The ice was in plates or narrow strips an inch or less in thickness, all up on edge, jammed thus when the river had first frozen over. These sharp plates mostly leaned obliquely up stream and stuck out of the snow as high as two feet, with gaps and holes between. We had a dreadful time. Our sled tipped over and the dogs dragged it on its side for several yards before we could stop them and fix the pack again. And then our shins! We could not see a thing, and sometimes a step would be down into a hole and the next step on top of a sharp edge of ice. If I fell down once I did twenty times. Cox had never worn muckluks before, and it was particularly hard on his feet. By the time we got to camp we were tired enough to lie down anywhere, whether we froze to death or not.

We were warmly welcomed at the first of the three Jesse Lou cabins which we struck, and they got us a hot supper and fixed our beds in true Kowak hospitality. It was New Year's Eve. 1899, before we got to bed.

By nine the next morning we were off again. The next halt was an Indian igloo thirty miles below. Before we had gone a third of the way my legs began to pain me so that I walked with difficulty. One of them was strained by a fall on the ice the night before, and I was in absolute torture all day. It was my first real suffering. Finally, when we had gone about fifteen miles, as it was getting dark and we did not care for a repetition of the previous night's experience, we made camp. Cogan had a tent and stove, and his companion was a "rustler." A patch of snow was soon scraped off and the tent put up. But it took a long time to heat the interior above the freezing point. Too much of the exterior gets into a tent.

It was forty degrees below zero that night and the next day. After one has perspired a good deal during the day he soon chills when he stops, if he forgets to put on more clothes. I had a big reindeer parka and also a pair of huge deerskin mittens. Without the latter I should surely have frozen my hands. The dogs ate up Cox's leather-covered mittens, and I gave him one of my pairs. The pair I wore got soaked with sweat and then froze on my hands as hard as a rock. If I had not happened to have the deerskin mitts to change with, I might have lost a few of my extra fingers. Cox did blister his. Colclough got up some hot flapjacks and bacon and we were filled. I slept in the parka and kept pretty warm. The rest occupied the big deerskin sleeping bag, which is the only safe bed in an Arctic camp.

The Jesse Lou Camp.

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