ARRIVAL
Our journal of Fox Island begins properly with the day of our final
coming there, Wednesday, September the twenty-eighth, 1918.
At nine o'clock in the morning of that day we slid our dory into the
water from the beach at Seward, clamped our little patched-up three
and one half horse-power Evinrude motor in the stern, and commenced
our loading.
Since the main part of such a story, as in all these following pages
we shall have to tell, must consist in the detailing of the
innumerable little commonplaces of our daily lives, we shall begin at
once with a list, as far as we have record of it, of all we carried
with us. It follows:
1 Yukon stove
4 lengths stovepipe
1 broom
1 bread pan
1 wash basin
1 bean pot
1 mixing bowl
Turpentine
Linseed oil
Nails, etc.
10 gals. gasoline
10 lbs. rice
5 lbs. barley
10 lbs. cornmeal
10 lbs. rolled oats
10 lbs. hominy
10 lbs. farina
10 lbs. sugar
50 lbs. flour
2 packages bran
6 cans cocoa
1 lb. tea
1 case milk
8 lbs. chocolate
1 gal. sirup
1 gal. cooking oil
1 piece bacon
2 cans dried eggs
2 cans baked beans
6 lemons
2 packages pancake flour
10 lbs. whole wheat flour
6 ivory soap
3 laundry soap
6 agate cups
4 agate plates
4 agate bowls
2 agate dishes
4 pots
2 pillows
2 comforters
1 roll building paper
1 frying pan
3 bread tins
10 lbs. lima beans
10 lbs. white beans
5 lbs. Mexican beans
10 lbs. spaghetti
12 cans tomatoes
100 lbs. potatoes
10 lbs. dried peas
5 lbs. salt
1 gal. peanut butter
1 gal. marmalade
Pepper
Yeast
5 lbs. prunes
5 lbs. apricots
5 lbs. carrots
10 lbs. onions
4 cans soup
12 candles
2 Dutch Cleanser
Matches
1 tea kettle
Pails, etc.
Also there were a heavy trunk containing books, paints, etc., one
duffel bag, one suit case, and a few other things. And when these were
stowed away in the dory there was little room for ourselves. However,
at ten o'clock we cast off and started for Fox Island with the little
motor running beautifully.
It lasted for three miles when at once, with a bang and a whir, the
motor raced, and the boat stood motionless on the calm gray water.
Through the fog we could just discern the cabin of a fisherman on the
nearest point of shore--perhaps a mile distant. We rowed there as
best we could, seated somehow atop our household goods; we unloaded
our useless motor, our gasoline, and our batteries, cleared a little
space in the boat for ourselves to man the oars, and in a miserable
drizzling rain, pushed off for a long, long pull to the island. By too
literal a following of directions I lengthened the remainder of the
course to twelve miles, and that we rowed, I don't know how, in four
hours and a half. Fortunately the water was as calm as could be.
Rockwell was a revelation to me. With scarcely a rest he pulled at the
heavy oars that at first he had hardly understood to manage; and when
we reached the island he was hilarious with good spirits.
We unloaded with the help of Olson--whom by the way we must introduce
at some length--and stowed our goods in his house and shed. We cooked
our supper on his stove and slept that night and the next on his
floor; and then, having our own quarters by that time in passable
shape, quit his friendly roof for the most hospitable, kindly, and
altogether comfortable roof in the world--our own.
Olson is about sixty-five years of age. He's a pioneer of Alaska and
knows the country from one end to the other. He has prospected for
gold on the Yukon, he was at Nome with the first rush there, he has
trapped along a thousand miles of coast; and now, ever unsuccessful
and still enterprising, he is the proprietor of two pairs of blue
foxes--in corrals--and four goats. He's a kind-hearted, genial old man
with a vast store of knowledge and true wisdom.
The map shows our Fox Island estate. Our cabin was built as a shelter
for Angora goats somewhat over a year ago. It is a roughly built log
structure of about fourteen by seventeen feet, inside dimensions, and
was quite dark but for the small door and a two by two feet opening on
the western side. We went to work upon it the morning following our
arrival and in two days, as has been told, made it a fit place to live
in but by no means the luxurious home that it was in our mind to make.
Our cabin to-day is the product of weeks' more labor. To describe
it is to account for our time almost to the beginning of the detailed
days of this diary.
[Illustration: HOME BUILDING]
Tread first upon a broad, plank doorstep the hatch of some ill-fated
vessel--the sea's gift to us of a front veranda; stoop your head to
four feet six inches and, drawing the latchstring, enter. Before you
at the south end of the sombre, log interior is a mullioned window
willing to admit more light than can penetrate the forest beyond.
Before it is a fixed work table littered with papers, pencils, paints,
and brushes. On each long side of the cabin is a shelf the eaves'
height, five feet from the floor. The right-hand one is packed with
foods in sacks and tins and boxes, the left-hand shelf holds clothes
and toys, paints and a flute, and at the far corner built to the floor
in orthodox bookcase fashion, a library.
We may glance at the books. There are:
"Indian Essays." Coomaraswamy
"Griechische Vasen"
"The Water Babies"
"Robinson Crusoe"
"The Prose Edda"
"Anson's Voyages"
"A Literary History of Ireland." Douglas Hyde
"The Iliad"
"The Crock of Gold"
"The Odyssey"
Andersen's "Fairy Tales"
"The Oxford Book of English Verse"
"The Home Medical Library"
Blake's "Poems"
Gilchrist's "Life of Blake"
"The Tree Dwellers," "The Cave Dwellers," "The Sea People," etc.
"Pacific Coast Tide Table"
"Thus Spake Zarathustra"
"The Book of the Ocean"
"Albrecht Dürer" (A Short Biography)
"Wilhelm Meister"
Nansen's "In Northern Mists"
In the center of the right-hand wall is a small low window and beneath
it the dining table. Right at the door where we stand, to our left, is
the sheet-iron Yukon stove and behind it another food-laden shelf. A
new floor of broad unplaned boards is under our feet, a wooden
platform--it is a bed--stands in the left-hand corner by the stove.
Clothes hang under the shelves; pots and pans upon the wall, snowshoes
and saws; a rack for plates in one place, a cupboard for potatoes and
turnips behind the door--the cellar it may be called; the trunk for a
seat, boxes for chairs, one stool for style; axes here and boots
innumerable there, and we have, I think, all that the eye can take in
of this adventurers' home!
Trees stood thick about our cabin when we first came there; and
between it and the shore a dense and continuous thicket of large
alders and sapling spruces. Day by day we cleared the ground; cutting
avenues and vistas; then, though contented at first with these,
enlarging them until they merged, and the sun began to shine about the
cabin. It grew brighter then and drier,--nonsense! am I mistaking the
daylight for the sun? I can remember but one or two fair days in all
the three weeks of our first stay on the island.
[Illustration: FIRE WOOD]
For a true record of this matter Olson's diary shall be copied into
these pages. It follows in full with his own phonetic spelling as
leaven.
Sunday, Aug. 25th--Wary fin Day. over tu Hump Bay got 2 salmon
an artist cam ar to Day and going to seward efter his outfit and
ar going to sta Hear this Winter in the new Cabbin.
Wed. 28th.--Drisly rain and cold. Mr. Kint and is son arivd
from seward this afternoon. goats out all night.
Thurs. 29th.--goats cam ome--12.30 p. m. Mr. Kint Working on
the Cabbin fixing at up. Drisly rain all night and all day.
Fri. 30th.--Wary fin day and the goats vant for the montane
igan. Help putting Windoes i to the Cabbin.
Sat. 31st.--Foggy day. Big steamer going to seward.
September
Sun. 1st.--Mead a trip around the island. Cloudy Day.
M. 2.--Big rainstorm from the S. E. goats all in the stabel.
T. 3.--Drisly rain all Day.
W. 4.--going to seward.
T. 5.--Came Home 1 P.M.
F. 6.--Drisly rain and Calm Wather.
S. 7.--S. E. rainstorm.
Sun. 8.--Big S. E. rainstorm.
M. 9.-- " " " "
T. 10.-- " " " "
W. 11.--first Colld night this fall. Clear Calm Day.
T. 12.--Clowdy and Calm. Tug and Barg going West.
F. 13.--Steamer from the Sought 5.30 P.M. Drisly rain and Calm.
S. 14.--raining Wary Hard. the litly angora queen ar in Hit
this morning. Fraet steamer from West going to Seward.
Sun. 15.--raining Wary Hard all Day. the goats ar in the cabbin
all Day sought Est storm.
M. 16.--S.E. rainstorm.
T. 17.--raining all Day. North Est storm With Caps and Wullys
all over.
W. 18.--Wary fear day. Mr. Kint and the Boy vant to seward this
morning.
T. 19.--raining heard all day steamer from West going to seward
4 P.M.
F. 20.--raining heard all Day.
S. 21.--Wary rof rainstorm from Soght Est. Wullys all over.
Sun. 22.--Steamer from West going to Seward 2 P.M. the tied
vary Hie Comes clear up in the gras and the surf ar Stiring up
all the Driftwood along the shore. raining lik Hell.
M. 23.--raining all Day.
T. 24.--Snow on top of the mountins on the maenland a tre
mastid skuner from West going to Seward. toed by som gassboth
raining to Day egan. Mr. Kint and son got ome to the island
this Evening.
September fourteenth.
I stopped writing, for the fire had almost gone out and the cold wind
blew in from two dozen great crevasses in the walls. The best of log
cabins need recalking, I am told, once a year, and mine, roughly built
as it is, needs it now in the worst way. Some openings are four or
five inches wide by two feet long. We've gathered a great quantity of
moss for calking, but it has rained so persistently that it cannot dry
out to be fit for use.
Well, it rains and rains and rains. Since beginning this journal we've
had not one fair day, and since we've been here on the island,
seventeen days, there has been only _one_ rainless day. There has been
but one cloudless sunrise. I awoke that day just at dawn and looking
across out of the tiny square window that faces the water could see
the blue--the deep blue--mountains and the rosy western sky behind
them. At last the sun rose somewhere and tipped the peaks and the
hanging glaciers, growing and growing till the shadows of other peaks
were driven down into the sea and the many ranges stood full in the
morning light. The twilight hours are so wonderfully long here as the
sun creeps down the horizon. Just think! there'll be months this
winter when we'll not see the sun from our cove--only see it touching
the peaks above us or the distant mountains. It will be a strange life
without the dear, warm sun!
I wonder if you can imagine what fun pioneering is. To be in a country
where the fairest spot is yours for the wanting it, to cut and build
your own home out of the land you stand upon, to plan and create
clearings, parks, vistas, and make out of a wilderness an ordered
place! Of course so much was done--nearly all--when I came. But in
clearing up the woods and in improving my own stead I have had a taste
of the great experience. Ah, it's a fine and wholesome life!...
Another day. The storm rages out of doors. To-day I stuffed the
largest of the cracks in our wall with woolen socks, sweaters, and all
manner of clothes. It's so warm and cozy here now! Olson has been in
to see me for a long chat. I believe he can give one the material for
a thrilling book of adventure. Take his story, or enough of the
thousand wild incidents of it, give it its true setting--publishing a
map of that part of the coast where his travels mostly lay--let it be
frankly _his_ story retold, above all true and savoring of this
land--and I believe no record of pioneering or adventure could
surpass it. He's a keen philosopher and by his critical observations
gives his discourse a fine dignity. On Olson's return to Idaho in the
'80's after his first trip to Alaska a friend of his, a saloon-keeper,
came out into the street, seized him, and drew him into his place.
"Sit down, Olson," he said, "and tell us about Alaska from beginning
to end." And the traveler told his long wonder-story to the crowd.
[Illustration: THE SLEEPER]
At last he finished.
"Olson," said his friend, "that would make the greatest book in the
world--if it was only lies."
Gee, how the storm rages!
I'm relieved to-night; Rockwell, who seems to have a felon on his
finger, is improving under the heroic treatment he submits to. I've
had visions of operating on it myself--a deep incision to the bone
being the method. It is no fun having such ailments to handle--unless
you're of the type Olson seems to be who, if his eye troubled him
seriously, would stick in his finger and pull the eye out,--and then
doubtless fill the socket with tobacco juice.
We have reached Wednesday, September the eighteenth.
That day the sun did shine. We rowed to Seward, Rockwell and I;
stopped for the motor that on our last trip we had left by the way,
but found the surf too high. At Seward the beach was strewn with
damaged and demolished boats from a recent storm. Moreover, in the
town the glacial stream was swollen to a torrent; the barriers had,
some of them, been swept away; a bridge was gone, the railroad tracks
were flooded, the hospital was surrounded and almost floated from its
foundations. And we saw the next day, when it again poured rain, the
black-robed sisters of charity, booted to the thighs, fleeing through
the water to a safer place. It stormed incessantly for four days more.
Although I had taken what seemed ample precaution for the safety of my
dory, she was caught at the height of the storm by the exceptional
tide of that season and carried against a stranded boat high up on the
shore, and pinioned there by a heavy pile torn from the wharf. But our
boat escaped undamaged.
Seward was dull for Rockwell and me. We've not come this long way from
our home for the life of a small town. America offers nothing to the
tourist but the wonders of its natural scenery. All towns are of one
mold or inspired, as it were, with one ideal. And I cannot see in
considering the buildings of a single period in the East and in the
West any indication of diversity of character, of ideals, of special
tradition; any susceptibility to the influence of local conditions,
nothing in any typical American house or town where I have been that
does not say "made in one mill." There's a God forsaken hideousness
and commonplaceness about Alaskan architecture that almost amounts to
character--but it is not quite bad enough to redeem itself. Somewhere
in the wilderness of the Canadian Rockies there's a little town of one
street backed up against the towering mountains. Dominating the town
is the two-or three-story "Queen Hotel," the last word in flamboyant,
gimcrack hideousness. Hotel and Mountain! it is sublime, that bald and
crashing contrast.
On September third, I wrote to a friend: "They strike me as needlessly
timid about the sea here, continually talking of frightful currents
and winds in a way that seems incredible to me and would, I think, to
a New England fisherman. However, I must be cautious. Olson says that
in the winter for weeks at a time it has been impossible to make the
trip to Seward. Well, I'll believe it when I try it and get stuck."
Three weeks later,--Tuesday, September twenty-fourth, we were in
Seward. The morning was calm varying between sun and rain, but it
seemed a good day to return to Fox Island. Rockwell and I had some
difficulty launching our boat down the long beach at low water; but at
last we managed it, loaded our goods aboard,--viz., two large boxes
of groceries, fifty-nine pounds turnips, a stove, five lengths of
stovepipe, a box of wood panels, two hundred feet one inch by two inch
strips, suit case, snowshoes, and a few odd parcels.
[Illustration: THE WINDLASS]
At ten forty-five we pushed off. At just about that moment the sun
retired for the day and a fine and persistent rain began to fall.
After about three miles we were overtaken by a fisherman in a motor
sloop bound to his camp three miles further down the shore. He took us
in tow and, finally arriving at his camp, begged us to stay "for a cup
of tea"--he was an Englishman. I yielded to the delay there against my
own better judgment. After a hearty meal we left his cove at two
fifteen.
Still it drizzled rain and the breeze blew faintly from the northeast.
We had a seven-mile row before us. Near Caines Head we encountered
squalls from the south and were for sometime in doubt as to the wind's
true direction. We headed straight for Fox Island only to find the
wind easterly, compelling us to head up into it. I fortunately
anticipated a heavier blow and determined to get as far to windward
and as near the shelter of the lea shore as possible, and without any
loss of time. Our propulsion toward the island I left to the tide
which was about due to ebb. We made good headway for a little time
until the wind bore upon us in heavy squalls.
The aspect of the day had become ominous. Heavy clouds raced through
the sky precipitating rain. The mountainous land appeared blue black,
the sea a light but brilliant yellow green. Over the water the wind
blew in furious squalls raising a surge of white caps and a dangerous
chop. I was now rowing with all my strength, foreseeing clearly the
possibility of disaster for us, scanning with concern the terrible
leeward shore with its line of breakers and steep cliffs. Rockwell,
rowing always manfully, had great difficulty in the rising sea and
wind. Fortunately he realized only at rare moments the dangers of our
situation.
We were now rowing continually at right angles to our true course. I
had but one hope, to get to windward before the rising sea and gale
overpowered us and carried us onto the dreaded coast that offered
absolutely no hope. Once to windward I had the choice of making a
landing in some cove or continuing for Fox Island by running with the
wind astern. At last the surface of the water was fairly seething
under the advancing squalls; the spray was whipped into vapor and the
caldron boiled. I bent my back to the oars and put every ounce of
strength into holding my own with the gale. It was a terrible moment
for I saw clearly the alternative of continuing and winning our fight.
"Father," pipes up Rockwell from behind me at this tragic instant
"when I wake up in the morning sometimes I pretend my toes are asleep,
and I make my big toe sit up first because he's the father toe." At
another time Rockwell, who had shown a little panic--a very
little--said: "You know I want to be a sailor so I'll learn not to be
afraid."
At last we turned and made for the island. We had reached the point
where with good chances of success we _could_ turn,--and where we
_had_ to. We reached the shelter of the island incredibly fast, it
seemed, with the sea boiling in our wake, racing furiously as if to
engulf us,--and then bearing us so smoothly and swiftly upon its crest
that if it had not been so terrible it would have been the most
soothing and delightful motion in the world. In rounding the headland
of our cove a last furious effort of the eluded storm careened us
sailless as we were far on one side and carried us broadside toward
the rocks. It was a minute before we could straighten our boat into
the wind and pull away from the shore, then twenty feet away. Olson
awaited us on the beach with tackle in readiness to haul our boat out
of the surf. We landed in safety. Looking at my watch I found it to be
a quarter to six. (The last four miles had taken us three hours!)
Olson's dory had been hauled up onto the grass and tied down
securely. Mine was soon beside it. The tides and heavy seas of this
time of year make every precaution necessary.
[Illustration: THE SNOW QUEEN]
The wind that night continued rising 'til it blew a gale. And that
night in their bed Rockwell and his father put their arms tight about
each other without telling why they did it.
Wednesday, September twenty-fifth.
It stormed from the northeast throughout the day. After putting the
cabin in order and hanging out our bedding to dry by the stove--for we
had found it very damp--I set about cutting a large spruce tree whose
high top shut out the light from our main windows. A few more still
stand in the way. The removal of all of them should give us a fair
amount of light even in the winter when the sun is hid. It occurs to
me that it may be rather fortunate that my studio window looks to the
south. I'll certainly not be troubled with sunlight while I may yet
borrow some of the near-sun brilliancy from above our mountain's top.
Rockwell and I worked some time with the cross-cut saw. I'm constantly
surprised by his strength and stamina. Rockwell read nine pages in his
book of the cave dwellers. So nine of "Robinson Crusoe" were due him
after supper. He undresses and jumps into bed and cuddles close to me
as I sit there beside him reading. And "Robinson Crusoe" is a story to
grip his young fancy and make this very island a place for adventure.
Thursday, September twenty-sixth.
These are typical days, I begin to feel sure, of prevailing Alaska
weather. It rains, not hard but almost constantly. Nothing is dry but
the stove and the wall behind it; the vegetation is saturated, the
deep moss floor of the woods is full as a sponge can be. We took the
moss that weeks ago we'd gathered and spread along the shore to dry
and commenced with this sopping stuff the calking of our cabin. It
went rapidly and the two gable ends are nearly done. What a difference
it makes; to-night when my fire roared for the biscuit baking the heat
was almost unbearable. The usual chores of wood and water; a little
work at manufacturing stationery; supper of farina, corn bread, peanut
butter, and tea; six pages for Rockwell; and the day, but for this
diary, is done.
Friday, September twenty-seventh.
At last it's fair after a clear moonlit night. I worked all day about
the cabin calking it and almost finishing that job, splitting wood,
and working with the cross-cut saw. Added stops to the frame of our
door, made a miter box, and cut my long strips brought from Seward
last trip into pieces for my stretcher frames. And Rockwell all this
time helped cheerfully when he was called upon, played boat on the
beach, hunted imaginary wild animals with his bow and arrow of
stone-age design, and was as always so contented, so happy that the
day was not half long enough.
Ah, the evenings are beautiful here and the early mornings, when the
days are fair! No sudden springing of the sun into the sky and out
again at night; but so gradual, so circuitous a coming and a going
that nearly the whole day is twilight and the quiet rose color of
morning and evening seems almost to meet at noon. We glance through
our tiny western window at sunrise and see beyond the bay the many
ranges of mountains, from the somber ones at the water's edge to the
distant glacier and snow-capped peaks, lit by the far-off sun with the
loveliest light imaginable.
To-night for supper a dish of Olson's goat's milk "Klabber" (phonetic
spelling), simply sour milk with all its cream upon it, thick to a
jelly. It was, in the favorite expression of Rockwell, "delicious."
[Illustration: FOX ISLAND, RESURRECTION BAY, KENAI PENINSULA, ALASKA]
Saturday, September twenty-eighth.
Beginning fresh but overcast the day soon brought us rain,--and it is
now raining gently as I write. And yet we accomplished a great deal,
clearing of undergrowth a part of the woods between us and the shore,
felling three more trees, and cutting up a monster tree with the
cross-cut saw. At dinner time Olson ran in with the greatest
excitement. On the path in the woods near the outlet of the lake he
had seen at one time five otters. They came from the water and
advanced to within twenty feet of where he and Nanny--the milk
goat--stood. And there they played long enough for him to have taken a
dozen pictures. In the afternoon we saw a number of otters at another
place, on the rocks at one end of the beach. They were in and out of
the water, going at times for little excursion swims far out into the
harbor, then chasing each other back and playing hide-and-go-seek
among the rocks. This afternoon I prepared all my wood panels to begin
my work, painting them on both sides.
Sunday, September twenty-ninth.
The Lord must have been pleased with us to-day for the grand clearing
up we gave this place of His. Olson has begun to work toward me in
clearing the still wild part of the intervening space between our
cabins. It begins to look parklike with trees stripped of limbs ten or
twelve feet from the ground and the mossy floor beneath swept clean.
With the cross-cut saw I finished up the giant tree we felled a few
days ago; and then, the ground being clear, I cut the large tree that
kept so much light from our windows. The difference it has made is
wonderful; our room is flooded with light.
There is a fascination in cutting trees. Once I have gripped my axe,
or even the tedious saw, I find it hard to relinquish it, returning to
it again and again for one more cut. I believe that the clearing of
homesteads gave the pioneer a compelling interest in life that was in
wonderful contrast to the ordinary humdrum labor to which at first he
must have been bred. It is easy to understand the rapid conquest of
the wilderness; begin it--and you cannot stop.
Rockwell has set his heart upon trapping, in the kindest and most
considerate way known, some wild thing--and having it for a pet. I
rather discouraged his taming the sea urchin and persuaded him out of
consideration for the intelligent creature's feelings to restore him
to the salt water--and let me have back the bread pan. But now one of
Olson's box traps is set for a magpie. They're plentiful here. I built
myself a fine easel to-day, the best one I've ever had; and put a
shelf under my drawing table. The room is clean and neat to-night; it
is in every way a congenial place. I don't see why people need better
homes than this. It was cloudy most of to-day and rained a very little
from time to time. Soon I can no longer keep from painting.
Monday, September thirtieth.
The morning brilliant, clear, and cold with the wind in the north. I
promised Rockwell an excursion when we had cut six sections from a
tree with the cross-cut saw. It went like the wind. Then with cheese,
chocolate, and Swedish hard bread in my pocket for a lunch we started
for the lowest ridge of the island that overlooks the east. We had
always believed this to be a short and easy ascent until one day just
before supper we tried it in a forced march and found, after the
greatest exertions in climbing, that the ridge lay still the good part
of an hour's climb above us.
So to-day, though we chose our path more wisely, it proved hard
climbing along rough stream beds, across innumerable fallen trees,
through alder, bramble, and blueberry thickets, and always with the
soft, oozy moss underfoot. But we reached the top-steep to the very
edge. Suddenly the trees ended, the land ended,--falling sheer away
four hundred feet below us; and we stood in wonder looking down and
out over a smooth green floor of sea and a fairyland of mountains,
peaks and gorges, and headlands that cast long purple shadows on the
green water. Clouds wreathed the mountains, snow was on their tops,
and in the clear atmosphere both the land and the sea were marvelous
for the beauty of their infinite detail. Tiny white crested wavelets
patterned the water's surface with the utmost precision and
regularity; and the land invited one to its smooth and mossy slopes,
its dark enchanted forests, its still coves and sheltered valleys, its
nobly proportioned peaks. It was a rare hour for us two.
[Illustration: RAIN TORRENTS]
We then followed the ridge toward the south walking in the smoothly
trodden paths of the porcupines. It led us up the lofty hill on the
east side of the island between its two coves. But the steepness of
the ascent and the matted thickets of storm-dwarfed alders that were
in our way were too much, I thought, for Rockwell, and after going
some distance farther alone I returned to him and we started
homewards.
Once on the mountain side we sat down in the moss and mountain
cranberry to rest. And all at once we saw a great old porcupine come
clambering up the hill a short way from us. I spoke to him in his own
whiny-moany language and he was much pleased; he sat up, listened, and
then came almost straight toward us. I continued talking to him until
after several corrections of his course--determined upon by sitting up
and listening--he arrived within four or five feet of Rockwell, and
sat up again.
We could hardly keep from laughing, he looked so foolish. But he
sensed things to be wrong, dropped down, elevated his quills, then
turned and started off. Somehow I couldn't let him go without annoying
him; so, grabbing a stick I pursued him poking at him to collect a few
quills. But at this Rockwell set up such a shrieking and wailing that
I had to stop,--and finally apologized profusely and explained that I
meant no harm to the sweet creature. Rockwell madly loves wild
animals, has not the slightest fear of them, and would really, I
believe, try out his theory of calming the anger of a bear by kissing
him.
Then we came home and had a good dinner. I cut more wood and at last,
after one month here on the island, I PAINTED. It was a stupid sketch,
but no matter, I've begun! A weasel came out and looked at me as I
worked, then whisked off. The magpies look into our trap, squint at
the food, and then at once leave that neighborhood. It is cloudy and
rainlike to-night. Is it too much to hope for more than one fair day?