CHAPTER XIV.

CAMP PENELOPE, Jan. 10, 1899.—Yesterday morning Uncle S. and Samms started on up the river with their dog sleds and mail. C. C. and Cox went with them. They hope to reach the Upper Penelope Camp and learn as much as they can of the outlook and the wish of the men as to segregation in the spring. They will have no easy trip of it, but C. C. seems to covet experience in winter traveling, and I think he will be the recipient of it this time.

When Cox and I got in with the mail, all the neighbors crowded into our cabin and there was general excitement until the sacks were gone through and the fate of each determined. Nearly everyone got letters. The latest news was dated August 22, and we had full accounts as to the probable closing of the war. I received six letters. Down at Kotzebue Camp I opened only one of these, the one of the latest date, and found it so bright and jolly that my spirits were at the highest pitch all the way home. Moral: Folks at home, write cheery letters to absent ones wherever they may be. The snow may be deep, and the dogs may be mad, and the trail rough.

We are beginning to talk about "going home." and of the probability of our cold welcome among our town's folk, who will possibly ridicule us as "fake gold-hunters," "prodigal sons," and all that. I was reading an article in one of the magazines last night, proving that an ambitious poor man nowadays has far more chances for success in any line than a rich one, and that "extreme poverty does not debar a man otherwise endowed, from entrance into the best society in the land." This in America of course. So we are saying in concert, while the latest news of gold fades into vapor, "Poverty is a blessing." It's a comfort to look at it in that light anyway. But it does not help some of our boys over the blues. Several put all they had into this venture, and on their return are destined to start all over again at day's work. I must own that I am myself the victim of some reluctance to return with empty gold-pan, and the old story of putting "gold into the fire and behold there came forth this calf" comes to me. We may have sufficient supplies to keep us in Alaska another year.

Uncle S. is one man that is making a success. He charges fifty cents for each letter or package he brings up the river. My bill would have been six dollars at that rate, but of course my trip down more than met that. The doctor got twenty-four letters and many papers. Don't know whether he has settled his bill or not. Mrs. Samms is with us until the return of Mr. Samms, which will be not less than three weeks if the weather is good. It seems odd to have a lady in the cabin, but she is very agreeable and we like her company. We modify our usual reckless behavior and serve her in every possible way.

She is teaching a class of children at the mission cabin. Mr. Samms is on an errand to get a census of native population and to note the condition of the Kowak Eskimos.There is likely to be a famine among them before spring, as they have spent too much time in watching the whites this year, neglecting to fish and hunt at the season. There is now little game in the country, and by next winter they will be destitute in clothing as well as food unless they receive help from outside.

Jan. 11, 6 a. m.—The doctor and I have just got out of bed, hours before the usual time of rising. We think we can write better, or read, early in the morning before everybody is up and story-telling and making noises in the room. When we are all active it is difficult to think.

The north wind is blowing a gale again, and its steady roar through the spruces outside, accompanied by the monotonous whisper or undertone whistling down the stovepipe, gives one a lonesome, dreary feeling. I almost shivered just now all on account of the sounds, although there is a blazing fire in the heater and the whole cabin is warm and comfortable.

Some of Mrs. Samms' Pupils.

We have had no trouble in keeping warm. In the corners near the ground there is always plenty of frost, and if one sits or stands long in such a locality his feet get cold. But out in the room it is always pleasant. We have not put in double windows, as we expected to do, there being no need of them. The single large sheet of glass in each window is all-sufficient, though the frost collects in very thick layers on the inside. This is probably one reason why it is so warm. We took out the window panes the other day and melted off the ice. It was nearly two inches thick on the lower part. The panes are over two feet square, and the frost work on them is beautiful to look at. The designs are constantly changing. Sometimes great fern fronds extend from the bottom clear to the top, and then another time the pattern is small, like delicate moss. When it is thick one can see cities and mountain crags and almost anything besides, if his imagination is alert.

The days are perceptibly longer now and yesterday sunlight touched the tops of the trees near the cabin. But it will be many weeks before the sun has sufficient effect to make any change in the temperature. Mrs. Samms says that February is our coldest month. We are getting along quite harmoniously in domestic affairs now. C. C.'s term of office as culinary chief expired at Christmas, and Rivers was elected to take his place, with myself as assistant. So I am back at my old stand again. There's one thing certain—we shall have less pies now. I think I shall be able to obtain a place as cook in a restaurant when I go back to the States if nothing better turns up. Our supply of some articles is getting short. We are going slow on mush and sugar, and the flour will not last longer than April at the rate we are using it now. However, our motto is to eat while we have the means, and go without when it is gone. Of course there is plenty in the "Penelope," if she is safe. We have a great deal of company at meals. Everyone traveling on the river stops in, either for a single meal or for the night. We like to be hospitable, and one has to be in this country. Wherever our own boys have been, up or down the river, they are treated royally at every camp, as I can personally testify.

We do not feed the Indians any more at all, and it is better for them. They have become so dependent upon the whites that they do not work for themselves any more. When they might be fishing or trapping, they are hanging around our cabins. They do not visit us as often now as in the fall. Rivers and I send them outside whenever meal-time comes, and they are beginning to learn. We must do this or suffer ourselves from hunger in a late spring.

Uncle S. reported that he found the "Penelope"in a safe place in a small inlet in Escholtz Bay. We received letters from the captain and Jett and Fancher. They have been on a sled trip up to the Buckland River, but with no success. However, they are in good spirits, hoping that something will be found before spring. Rumors reach us as to "finds" on the Noatak River, but we do not pay the least attention to them. The "Flying Dutchman" dropped in on us again yesterday. He is a "rustler," and will make it pay under any circumstances. He has more grit than all the rest of the men on the Kowak. He has a partner now in carrying mail, and a sled with dogs.

Come to Church.

Jan. 15. Sunday, 6 a. m.—I am up alone. The doctor is a great fellow to lie in bed, excepting on rare occasions, when he is very smart. He even takes his afternoon nap regularly, and then sleeps ten hours at night. The wind is blowing at the same rate it has been going for a week. One day it was a fearful storm. It blew so one could scarcely stand up against it, and the snow and sand were driven along in blinding blasts.

We can easily see now how the hills and dunes on the south side of the Kowak valley are formed. It blows with such force that all the snow is taken off from the sand-bars, and all the loose sand as well, and finally the coarse gravel is driven off on to the ice, where it travels until it reaches the south bank of the river, where drifts ten feet deep have been formed the last week. The natives tell us that in two moons from this the wind will blow harder than ever, and that it will be much colder. Yesterday we piled more sand and brush around the north and east side of the house. The wind had carried away a good deal of the original banking. The doctor was quite snowed into his bed one morning. We couldn't find the place of entrance, but it is now doubtless covered.

Yesterday was washing-day for me personally. We do our washing one at a time for reasons of necessity. I had a large wash, as a part of it had been accumulating since August of last year. It is our habit to put off this very disagreeable duty as long as we decently can. I put in two faithful hours over the tub until my knuckles were sore and my back so lame I could only with difficulty straighten myself. I succeeded at last in "doing" ten pairs of socks, seven handkerchiefs, three towels and a suit of underwear, besides other things. I can now sympathize most heartily with the washerwoman of history. I have the clothes drying on the rafters above the stovepipe. The union suit is an awkward thing to handle in washing. I would rather tackle a blanket. A blanket has not two arms and two legs to be continually in the way. I could not wring it out very well, and after hanging it up to dry it dripped for several hours, sprinkling anyone who ventured under it. Uncle Jimmy sat down comfortably to read a good book, but he chanced to be in the line of gravity, and a splash on top of his bald head prompted him to address some words to me. It was only a few days ago that Uncle Jimmy's washing was "out," and I frequently had the edifying sensation of a sloppy, dripping drawers leg slapping me in the face as I moved about the kitchen stove in my culinary duties. We have to be patient and charitable when it is washing day, and other days. I will say that our domestic life is not often marred by so small a trifle as water dripping from a drawers leg. If we were sensitive to little things wewould find frequent opportunity for grumbling.

Jan. 23, 9 a. m.—Just got through with breakfast. Our menu is much the same these days—corn-meal mush, biscuit or flapjacks, hash, bacon, flour gravy and coffee. Kowak hash is a work of art, and is deserving of especial mention. It is a sort of literary review of the previous day's dishes. This morning it was simpler than usual, and consisted of only split peas, corn-meal mush, bacon, rice, toasted bread, salt-horse and beans, seasoned to taste. And yet the "beasts" claim their appetite is impaired! Needn't have eaten up all the luxuries the first thing.

Several of the boys like to go out visiting the other camps in the evening, and not get home till morning "or thereabouts." I am a "good little boy," and go to bed at nine and get up at six. I have the breakfast ready shortly after eight, and then the fun begins, getting the boys up. They want to lie in bed till twelve, and Uncle Jimmy joins us in making it so uncomfortable for them they prefer rising.

Harry Reynolds is washing to-day. He has just discovered that he has made a sad mistake. He dumped his bundle of clean socks into the tub instead of the soiled ones. General laughter at his expense. But H. wrings them out "dryly." He knows the laugh will not be on him next washing day.

The jolly missionary's wife is singing in my ear something about "Darling Joe." Now, she thinks because she happens to be married that I must be much younger than she—in fact "quite a lad." In point of fact I am the older. It was my turn to shave yesterday, and I did so, consequently my chin is smarting. It is an unnatural process, and I think should be prohibited by act of congress.

I have been reading "A Scientific Demonstration of the Future Life," by Hudson. It interested me very much, and the doctor and I got into many a warm argument over it. It is a strange fact that we never argue upon subjects we agree upon. I always stick to my sharp point and he to his. Our discussions are usually on some biological topic, and the rest of the men do not know what we are talking about. One night, after a long argument in which I would not yield a single point when the doctor thought I ought, he wrote me the following

ODE.

Mon ami, Joe,A thing I knowIs, you are Joe,Why this is soI do not know;But well I knowYouwillbe Joe,Until you goFrom earth below.But even so,My young friend Joe,Before you goYou'llnotbe Joe,(The sameIknow)For you will growBoth old and slow.And fall belowTo what you'd growIn things to knowOf what is so.On things you knowAnd say areso.Hard winds will blow,And light will grow,And change them soYou will not knowThat they are so.And then, by Joe,You'll be more slowTo say you knowA thing is so.'Cause then you'll knowThat whatwassoWhen you were JoeMay not be soWhen you're not Joe;And thatissoWhich was not soWhen you were JoeDown here below.I like you, Joe,I'd have you know;And that is so.Because you're Joe.And be it so.Mon ami, Joe,As to and froThe world you go;That which you knowDeclare 'tisso;And sobeJoe,The Joe I know,"Chickadee Joe."

Mon ami, Joe,A thing I knowIs, you are Joe,Why this is soI do not know;But well I knowYouwillbe Joe,Until you goFrom earth below.

Mon ami, Joe,

A thing I know

Is, you are Joe,

Why this is so

I do not know;

But well I know

Youwillbe Joe,

Until you go

From earth below.

But even so,My young friend Joe,Before you goYou'llnotbe Joe,(The sameIknow)For you will growBoth old and slow.And fall belowTo what you'd growIn things to knowOf what is so.

But even so,

My young friend Joe,

Before you go

You'llnotbe Joe,

(The sameIknow)

For you will grow

Both old and slow.

And fall below

To what you'd grow

In things to know

Of what is so.

On things you knowAnd say areso.Hard winds will blow,And light will grow,And change them soYou will not knowThat they are so.

On things you know

And say areso.

Hard winds will blow,

And light will grow,

And change them so

You will not know

That they are so.

And then, by Joe,You'll be more slowTo say you knowA thing is so.'Cause then you'll knowThat whatwassoWhen you were JoeMay not be soWhen you're not Joe;And thatissoWhich was not soWhen you were JoeDown here below.

And then, by Joe,

You'll be more slow

To say you know

A thing is so.

'Cause then you'll know

That whatwasso

When you were Joe

May not be so

When you're not Joe;

And thatisso

Which was not so

When you were Joe

Down here below.

I like you, Joe,I'd have you know;And that is so.Because you're Joe.And be it so.Mon ami, Joe,As to and froThe world you go;That which you knowDeclare 'tisso;And sobeJoe,The Joe I know,"Chickadee Joe."

I like you, Joe,

I'd have you know;

And that is so.

Because you're Joe.

And be it so.

Mon ami, Joe,

As to and fro

The world you go;

That which you know

Declare 'tisso;

And sobeJoe,

The Joe I know,

"Chickadee Joe."

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