NEW YEAR
To Rockwell who asked what happened on the New Year that everybody sat
up to see it come we tried hard to tell all sorts of yarns about
explosions and rumblings, but he wouldn't believe a bit of it. He
might have said, "How can anything like that happen here where nothing
ever comes from the sky except rain?"
So far the new year is just exactly like the old's latter end but that
it is more joyous. And the joy came at eleven-thirty P.M. of January
first, gliding by about two miles out in the bay, a dazzle of lights
like a fairy citadel, the STEAMER! At my cry Rockwell sat up in bed
and gazed too. Olson unfortunately was in bed and we did not call him.
So I set at once to work writing, tying up parcels, making lists,
until two o'clock of this morning.
At eight we had Olson out of bed. I hung about there threatening him,
ordering him, begging him to hurry. Old men are hard to move fast. He
shaved standing up there in his cabin with the door wide open and the
goats playing about him. I let him have a bite of breakfast, but not
much. The dory had to be unbound--for we tie them to the ground--and
turned right-side up, and loaded and launched,--but all that only
after half an hour's cranking of the engine, the infernal things! It
would look like snow one minute and be fair the next; but it held fair
enough finally for Olson to get off and disappear--to our immense joy.
He laughs at our eagerness to get him off for the mail.
Yesterday was Olson's day for celebrating and many times we drank to
the New Year together. But I _would_ work, to his disgust. Still he
understands pretty well the strange madness that possesses me, and is
not at all unsympathetic. I explained to him one day the difference
between working to suit yourself and working to suit other people.
He'd defy the world at any time he chose no matter how poor his
fortunes.
Well, now we wait for mail. Already I'm impatient for Olson's return
and that cannot well be before the day after to-morrow. Rockwell and I
walked around the bay in the afternoon more to have a look toward
Seward where our mail comes from than for anything else. But Seward
was hidden in falling snow. All the bay was shrouded in mist and snow.
But our own cove was beautiful to look back upon with its white peaks
and dark forest, and far down at the water's edge our tiny cabins from
one of which the thick smoke of the smoldering fire curled upwards.
Sunday, January fifth.
Olson is still away. It is wearing to wait this way in hope,--for we
will hope even if the wind blows and the snow falls. And so it has
done. The day following Olson's departure it was wonderfully fair and
calm, but the next day, it being the day he should have returned, a
heavy snowstorm set in. And to-day with less snow there was more
wind,--not so much that he could not have come but enough that he
didn't. We walked down the beach and scanned the bay with the glasses,
and up to dark I looked continually for the little boat to be rounding
the headland.
[Illustration: ANOTHER OF ROCKWELL'S DRAWINGS]
It seems as if that were all the news, but the days have really been
full of work and other interest. The snow itself, lying deep and light
and over all--even the tree tops--is a delight. Rockwell and I played
bear and hunter to-day tracking each other in the woods. Only the
goats are miserable these days with their browse all covered but what
they can gnaw from the tree trunks. Billy at this season is a fury.
One has really to go armed with a clout. Yesterday he burst in the
door of Olson's shed and then inside managed to shut the door on
himself. When I investigated the strange banging that I'd been hearing
for some time, I found him. He had even piled things against the door.
While no actual damage has been done he has tossed every blessed thing
about with his horns. Boxes, pails, sacks of grain, cans, rope, tools,
all lie piled in confusion about the floor. It does no good to beat
the creature. He will learn nothing. It is about one-thirty A. M. I've
written more than I intended writing. My heart is set upon the mail
and nothing else.
Monday, January sixth.
With Olson still away and the mail with him what can there be to
report. It snows. It is so mild that we walk about hatless, coatless,
mittenless. Drip, drip, drip, goes it from the eaves continuously. The
snow has fallen from the trees. On the ground it lies deep and heavy.
To-morrow maybe we shall take to snowshoes. Rockwell and I each took a
trip along the beach to look for Olson. As I stood there peering into
the haze toward Seward a head arose from the water close to me. It was
a seal. He looked all about him for the greatest while, went under,
reappeared again near by once more, and then was gone. Billy burst
open that shed of Olson's again. Some day I shall murder a goat!
Wednesday, January eighth.
Two more days and Olson still away. I'm furious at him. Yesterday he
could well have come, to-day it has been impossible. We seem to do
little here but wait. Even at the height of to-day's storm I found
myself continually going to the little window to look for a boat. Rain
and snow, rain and snow! Ah, if only we had our mail here--then these
warm, white days would be delightful. Yesterday we wore our snowshoes
for the first time, but only to tramp down the cove and look toward
Seward.
The only recompense for Olson's absence is Nanny's milk. I'm an expert
milker now and can do the job before she finishes her cup of oats. I
_have_ to, for at the finish she leaps madly to escape me. Goat's milk
junket and orange marmalade; sublime!
Friday, January tenth.
One hour ago it was as beautiful a moonlit night as one ever beheld.
The softest veils of cloud passed the moon and cast over the earth
endlessly varied, luminous shadows. The mountain tops, trees, rocks,
and all, are covered with new snow; the valleys and the lower levels
are black where rain has cleared the trees. It is so beautiful here at
times that it seems hard to bear. And now at this moment the rain
falls as if it had fallen for all time and never would cease. Oh
Olson, Olson! Is it anything to you in your old age to be so madly
wanted? Here it truly is conceivable that any condition of bad weather
could visit us for months without relief. There seems no rhyme or
reason to it until you see it as the reverse of marvelously fair
weather; a blue sky is here as wrong as rain in a rainless desert
land.
Nothing has happened. I am making good drawings and have made two
small woodcuts. Billy to-day again tackled the door of Olson's shed.
My fixing of the lock proved _too_ good. That held--while he burst the
door to pieces. I caught him at the finish of it; I become a maniac at
such a time. I pursued the beast with a club in a mad chase through
the heavy snow, catching him often enough to get some satisfaction at
least in the beating I gave him. He fears me now and that's something
gained. But it's a bad matter both for Billy and for me.
It is now after midnight and I've just finished a drawing. Rockwell is
concerned about these late hours and when I told him that I could work
so very well alone at night he seriously suggested that I send him out
in the daytime to stay all day without dinner so that I could work
better. I'm reading about King Arthur and the round table to him;
that's good for both of us. He has made himself a lance and a sword
and to-morrow I expect to confer some sort of knighthood upon him.
Apropos of the book of King Arthur, Rockwell said to-day, "I don't
think the pictures in the book are half nice enough. I think of a
wonderful picture when you read the story and then when I see the one
in the book I'm disappointed." And these King Arthur pictures are
rarely good in execution. It just shows that one need not attempt to
palm off unimaginative stuff, much less trash, on children. The
greatest artists are none too good to make the drawings for children's
books. Imagination and romance in pictures and stories a child asks
for above all, and those qualities in illustration are the rarest.
[Illustration: WELTSCHMERZ]
Monday, January thirteenth.
Of the three days that have again passed two have been quite fair
enough for Olson to have come. Both yesterday and to-day Rockwell and
I made frequent trips down the shore to look for him. It is terribly
depressing to have your heart set upon that mail that doesn't come. I
begin to think that some other cause than the weather holds Olson
away. It is possible that the steamer we saw going to Seward was no
mail steamer, and that Olson, who has gone for his pension money, is
waiting for a mail. I feel like making no record of these days. I take
pleasure only in their quick passage.
Saturday night Rockwell received the order of knighthood. For three
quarters of an hour he stayed upon his knees watching over his arms.
He was all that time as motionless as stone and as silent. Now he is
Sir Lancelot of the Lake and jousts all day with imaginary giants and
wicked knights. He has rescued one queen for himself but as yet none
for me.
We have run about some on our snowshoes, though the snow is nowhere
deep enough for that except along the shore. The weather is still
mild--hardly freezing at all--and it forever successively rains,
snows, and hails. All the animals are still alive. I don't love them,
they're rather a nuisance. Nothing could be less amusing than a blue
fox,--small creatures, excessively timid, of cowed demeanor. Saturday
I had to get a bag of fish from the lake where they had been soaking
and cook up another great supply of fox food.
Wednesday, January fifteenth.
Yesterday to begin with a snowstorm and then a clear, gray day. To-day
blue sky in the morning, a north wind and bitter cold; gray again at
noon and mild. By the geological survey report of Kenai Peninsular,
January should average in temperature at Seward sixteen degrees. From
now on it must average close to zero to give us sixteen for the month.
Here it's not as cold as New York. Rockwell bathed to-night standing
within six feet of the open door. I have definitely decided that Olson
stays for some cause other than the weather, although to-day and
yesterday he could not have come. We snowshoed a bit to-day. Alaska
snowshoes are certainly the easiest that ever were to travel on.
Thursday, January sixteenth.
Well, after to-day there remains no doubt that Olson stays away
purposely--unless he's sick or dead. Rockwell's theory that Seward has
been totally swept away by a terrible fire, with every man, woman, and
child of its inhabitants, I disproved to-night. We walked down the
beach and there were the lights of the great city brighter it seemed
than ever. Either there has been no mail boat at all since early in
December or there has been no mail from Juneau whence Olson's
"check-que," as he calls it, comes. Well it profits us nothing to
speculate on this.
The day has been glorious, mild, fair, with snow everywhere even on
the trees. The snow sticks to the mountain tops even to the steepest,
barest peaks painting them all a spotless, dazzling white. It's a
marvelous sight. Rockwell and I journeyed around the point to-day and
saw the sun again. To-night in the brilliant moonlight I snowshoed
around the cove. There never was so beautiful a land as this! Now at
midnight the moon is overhead. Our clearing seems as bright as
day,--and the shadows are so dark! From the little window the
lamplight shines out through the fringe of icicles along the eaves,
and they glisten like diamonds. And in the still air the smoke ascends
straight up into the blue night sky.
[Illustration: VICTORY]
Saturday, January eighteenth.
Two beautiful days, these last. And to-night the wind blows and the
snow falls and it is very cold. The days are uneventful. We journey
many times down the beach over our snowshoe trail. That's our
out-of-doors diversion,--to look up the bay toward Seward. But the
view is beautiful. Loftier mountains, more volcano shaped are about
Seward, and they're dazzling white.
Yesterday Rockwell found otter tracks crossing from the salt water to
the lake,--a lot of them. It's wonderful to think that those fine
creatures have crossed the five long miles of water. Their footprints
are as large as a good-sized dog's. They seem to have a great time
frisking about as they travel. On one little slope they have made a
slide. No footprints are there at all,--only the smoothly worn track.
We see no wild life as a rule but the eagles. They're all about in
plenty, magnificent birds when seen close to, and when flying at the
mountain's height still surprisingly large.
The milk goat is dry,--so that's one chore less. Rockwell feeds the
goats every day, but I can't trust him with the foxes; he'd leave the
door open as likely as not. (It was reserved for Olson himself to let
this happen. May twenty-ninth he writes in a letter to me:
"Had a skear or acksedent on the eighteenth, i vas putteng som
grase in to the fox Corrals an i most heav left the hok of van i
turnd around the dor vas open and 1. fox goan the litle femall
in the Corall naxst to the goat Hous. And the fox var over at
the tant i cald to em et vas suppertam to Com bake and get som
sepper and He sat down and luckt at me bot finly mosed of op in
the Hill. i take the other fox and put em in the other Corall
and left the 2--tow Coralls open and put feed in the seam es
nothing ad apen. the first night i did not sleep vary val. the
sakond night and not showing up, bot naxst morning i Came out to
the Corall the feed vas goin en the pan and the fox vas sleping
on the box var he allves du and i felt a litle Beatter van the
doors ar shut.")
I'm hard at work painting by day and drawing at night. Twenty-five
good drawings are done. On the fair, warm days Rockwell spends most of
his time out-of-doors. Being Sir Lancelot still delights him and
there's not a stump in the vicinity that has not been scarred by his
attacks with lance and sword. These stumps are really mostly all
giants. I am now reading the Department of Agriculture year book. It's
very instructive.
Tuesday, January twenty-first.
The north wind rages to-night. It is cold and clear starlight. With
the violent wind-gusts the snow sweeps by in clouds-sweeps _by_ except
for what sweeps _in_. Over my work table it descends in a fine, wet
spray so that I've had to cover that place with canvas and work
elsewhere. A wild day it has been and a wild night is before us. And
yesterday was little brother to it.
These days are wonderful but they are terrible. It is thrilling now
with Olson absent to reflect that we are absolutely cut off from all
mankind, that we cannot, in this raging sea, return to the world nor
the world come to us. Barriers must secure your isolation in order
that you may experience the full significance of it. The romance of an
adventure hangs upon slender threads. A banana peeling on a mountain
top tames the wilderness. Much of the glory of this Alaska is in the
knowledge I have that the next bay--which I may never choose to
enter--is uninhabited, that beyond those mountains across the water is
a vast region that no man has ever trodden, a terrible ice-bound
wilderness.
We begin to think less of Olson's return. I have settled to my work
and can imagine things continuing as they are for weeks. They _will_
continue so unless the wind forsakes the north. Two days ago after a
very cold night we awoke to thunder and lightning--and snow! In two
hours the sun was out. That afternoon I stripped and danced awhile in
the snow--a _little_ while. Then, after a hot bath, out again in my
nakedness for a roll in the snow, dressed,--and felt a new man.
Rockwell loves it all more and more. He seems absolutely contented and
spends hours a day outdoors.
What a marvel is a child's imagination! It is a treat for Rockwell to
play "man-eater" at bedtime and attack me furiously. And if at any
time I'll just enter his pretend-world it's all he can wish for.
Another filthy mess of fox-food has been prepared and a new sack of
salt fish put to soak in the lake. I do hate that chore. Pioneering I
relish; ranching I despise, at least blue fox ranching. The miserable
things slink about so in such sick and mean spirited fashion.
Thursday, January twenty-third.
Sometimes the smoke goes up the flue--and sometimes down. And that's
not good for the fire. I sit within six inches of the stove with a
frozen nose and icy feet. The wind sifts through the walls. Now, with
our moss calking shrunken and dried and shriveled further with the
cold, our cabin would be light without windows. These are so far the
coldest days of winter. Although it blows straight from the north,
whence only fair weather comes, the day is dark with drifting snow
cloud high. The water of the bay is hidden in driving vapor. We cut
wood and stuff it everlastingly into the stove. To-day seventy pieces
for the ravenous air-tight, big chunks, have been cut and split--and
we'll cut again to-morrow. But with all the trouble of cold weather
we'd be mightily disappointed if the winter slipped by without it.
It's a real satisfaction to find that my calculations in supplies, in
bedding, in heating equipment were just right for conditions here.
We're running low now in cereals and milk but we had planned to visit
Seward this month to restock. Olson's absence is quite outside of all
plans. If he isn't sick it's hard to explain reasonably in any way.
For the past three weeks I have made on an average no less than one
good drawing a day, really drawings I'm delighted with. I've struck a
fine stride and moreover a good system for my work here to continue
upon. During the day I paint out-of-doors from nature by way of fixing
the forms and above all the color of the out-of-doors in my mind. Then
after dark I go into a trance for a while with Rockwell subdued into
absolute silence. I lie down or sit with closed eyes until I "see" a
composition,--then I make a quick note of it or maybe give an
hour's time to perfecting the arrangement on a small scale. Then when
that's done I'm care free. Rockwell and I play cards for half an hour,
I get supper, he goes to bed. When he's naked I get him to pose for me
in some needed fantastic position, and make a note of the anatomy in
the gesture of my contemplated drawing. Little Rockwell's tender form
is my model perhaps for some huge, hairy ruffian. It's a great joke
how I use him. Generally I have to feel for the bone or tendon that I
want to place correctly.
[Illustration: ZARATHUSTRA AND HIS PLAYMATES]
Last night I drew laughing to myself. A lion was my subject. I have
often envied Blake and some of the old masters their _ignorance_ of
certain forms that let them be at times so delightfully, impressively
naïve. I've thought it matters not a bit how little you know about the
living form provided you proceed to draw the thing according to some
definite, consistent idea. Don't conceal your ignorance with a slur,
be definite and precise even there. Well, by golly, this lion gave me
my chance to be unsophisticated; such a silly, smirking beast as I
drew! At last it became somewhat rational and a little dignified, but
it still looks like a judge in a great wig. But a lion that lets a
naked youth sleep in his paws as this one does may be expected to be a
little unbeastly. When I began to write these pages to-night the stars
were out. Now it snows or hails on the roof!
Saturday, January twenty-fifth.
It is bitterly cold weather, as cold continuously as I've ever
experienced. Both yesterday and to-day the wind has been exceptionally
violent and the air full of flying snow. Both of Olson's water
barrels--in the house--have frozen solid. One bulged and burst the
bottom rolling itself off onto the floor.
Sunday, January twenty-sixth.
A day of hard work with Rockwell in bed for a change. Just a little
stomach upset--and he's all right now. Felled a tree and cut up
fifteen feet of it, taking advantage of this glorious day. It was much
milder than for days it has been and it still holds so to-night.
There's no wind and that makes ever so much difference in the cabin.
Now if it will hold calm and mild for a day we'll see whether or not
Olson is yet ready to return.
Tuesday, January twenty-eighth.
I'm reading "Zarathustra," "Write with blood, and thou wilt learn that
blood is spirit." So that book was written. Last night I made a
drawing of Zarathustra leading the ugliest man by the hand out into
the night to behold the round moon and the silver waterfall. What a
book to illustrate! The translator of it says that Zarathustra is such
a being as Nietzsche would have liked himself to be,--in other words
his ideal man. It seems to me that the ideal of a man _is_ the real
man. You _are_ that which in your soul you choose to be; your most
beautiful and cherished vision is yourself. What are the true, normal
conditions of life for any man but just those perfect conditions with
which he would ideally surround himself. A man is not a sum of
discordant tendencies--but rather a being perfect for one special
place; and this is Olson's creed.
My chief criticism of Zarathustra is his taste for propaganda. Why,
after all, concern himself with the mob. In picturing his hero as a
teacher has not Nietzsche been tricked away from a true ideal to an
historical one? Of necessity the great _selfish_ figures of all time
have gone down to oblivion. It's the will of human society that only
the benefactors of mankind shall be cherished in memory. A pure ideal
is to be the thing yourself, concerning yourself no bit with proving
it. And if the onward path of mankind seems to go another way than
yours--proud soul, let it.
[Illustration: FROZEN FALL]
Wednesday, January twenty-ninth.
Alaska _can_ be cold! Monday broke all records for the winter. Tuesday
made that seem balmy. It was so bitterly cold here last night in our
"tight little cabin" that we had to laugh. Until ten o'clock when I
went to bed the large stove was continuously red hot and running at
full blast. And yet by then the water pails were frozen two inches
thick--but ten feet from the stove and open water at supper time, my
fountain pen was frozen on the table, Rockwell required a hot water
bottle in bed, the fox food was solid ice, my paste was frozen, and
that's all. My potatoes and milk I had stood near the stove. At twelve
o'clock the clock stopped-starting again from the warmth of breakfast
cooking. I put the water pail at night behind the stove close to it,
and yet it was solid in the morning. We burn an unbelievable amount of
wood, at least a cord a week in one stove. So I figure we earn a
dollar a day cutting wood. We felled another tree to-day and cut most
of it up. Still we manage to gain steadily with our wood pile always
in anticipation of worse weather. Last night at sundown the bay
appeared indescribably dramatic. Dense clouds of vapor were rising
from the water obscuring all but a few peaks of the mountains and
darkening the bay. But above the sun shone dazzlingly on the peaks and
through the thinner vapor, coloring this like flames. It was as if a
terrible fire raged over the bay. This morning for hours it was dark
from clouds of vapor. They swept in over our land and coated the trees
of the shore with white frost.
Yesterday I had to go to the lake and chop out a bag of fish for the
foxes. I returned covered with ice and the fish were frozen solid
before I reached the cabin. I cut them up to-day with the axe and
cooked a week's supply of food for the foxes.
Rockwell has been a trump. The weather can't be too cold for him. This
morning he pulled his end of the saw without rest. He rarely goes out
now without his horse, lance, and sword and he addresses me always as
"My lord." Surely Lancelot himself was no gentler knight. And now it's
bedtime. The cold is less than last night but still I sit huddled at
the stove. It is the bitter wind that makes the trouble.
Thursday, January thirtieth.
A splendid day of wood cutting. It was milder and quite windless in
our cove, although in the bay there were whitecaps. A light snow had
begun to fall by noon and it continues. To increase our lead on the
weather we set to work upon a twenty-eight inch tree. We had to throw
it somewhat against its natural lean and it was a terrible job. The
wedge would not enter the frozen tree and when it at last did it
wouldn't lift the great mass that rested on it. Only after an hour's
continuous pounding with the heavy sledge-hammer did I drive the wedge
in clear to the head, and then the great tree fell. The fall of one of
these monsters--for to us they seem gigantic--is thrilling. This one
went straight where we had aimed it, down a narrow avenue in the
woods. Ripping and crashing it fell carrying down a smaller tree with
its limbs. Then Rockwell and I set to work with the saw. When the
drums were split we hauled them to the cabin on Olson's Yukon sled.
And now our wood pile is a joyous sight, while within the cabin we
have a whole, cold day's supply.
Last night just as I was going to bed Rockwell began to talk in his
sleep about some wild adventure with his imaginary savages. I asked
him if he were cold. "No, my lord," he murmured and slept on. Very
fine barley soup to-day. Water in which barley had been boiled, two
bouillon cubes, onions browned in bacon fat. Rockwell said it was the
best yet.
Saturday, February first.
Again the days are like spring. Yesterday began the thaw and today
continues it with rain most of the time. So we've stayed within
doors, Sir Lancelot and my lordship working here at our craft. I
have just completed my second drawing for the day. One a day has been
the rate for a month--but yesterday the spirit didn't work. But the
news! A great, old tramp steamer entered yesterday. That must carry
mail and freight and send Olson back to us. If only it were a regular
liner I'd know for sure. It is possible this steamer has been
chartered to relieve the situation. Well--the next fair, calm day will
show.
[Illustration: THE HERMIT]
Sunday, February second.
It's before supper. Rockwell, who has just run out-of-doors for a
romp, calls at this moment that he has lost his slipper in the snow
and is barefooted. Out-of-doors is to us like another room. Mornings
we wash in the snow, invariably. And with a mug of water in hand clean
our teeth out there--and this in the coldest weather. We scour our
pots with snow before washing them, throw the dish water right out of
the door, and generally are in and out all day.... It is surely
nonsense to think that changes of temperature give men colds. Neither
of us has had a trace of a cold this winter, we haven't even used
handkerchiefs--only sleeves. Nor does it give one a cold to _be_ cold.
I've tried that often enough to know. And a variable climate has, too,
nothing to do with it, for what variableness could exceed an Alaska
winter. Colds, like bad temper and loss of faith, are a malady of the
city crowd.
It rains--this moment, the next it will hail--and then snow. Sometime
to-day the sun has shone, sometime the wind has blown, and for the
rest been calm. Altogether it has been too uncertain for us to expect
Olson. And now for the sour-dough hot cakes and supper. For Rockwell,
barley, "the marrow of men."
Rockwell to-day asked me how kings earned their living. I said they
didn't earn it--just got the people to give it to them.
"What's that," he said laughing, "some sort of a joke they play on the
people?"
So I guess it takes education to appreciate privilege. Incidentally,
the war must be over and the heroes, having proved by their might that
might does _not_ make right--or that it does? (!) now have doffed the
soldier's uniform of glory for the little-honored clothes of toil.
Monday, February third.
We are in the second month of Olson's absence. To-day it stormed
mostly; heavy snow in the morning. Through the thick of it we heard
faintly a steamer whistle. It seemed to be receding, outward bound. At
four o'clock while a light snow fell the lightning played merrily and
thunder crashed. It is like this: snow for half an hour, then
rain--silence and calm for a few minutes. Suddenly huge hailstones
pelt the roof, for all the world like rocks. This lasts a few seconds,
there's a fierce gust of wind showering ice and snow from the tree
tops down upon us, again calm and silence--and the performance is
ready to begin again.
Tuesday, February fourth.
It has been so changeable to-day that we are still uncertain of
Olson's intentions. We snowshoed down the beach in the beautiful,
soft, new snow so at least to have a look toward Seward. There lay the
bay calm and beautiful--and spotless. The scale of things is so
tremendous here that I've little idea how far we shall be able to see
the little, bobbing boat when it does come.
We sawed a lot of wood to-day bringing our pile clear up into the
gable peak. It becomes a mania seeing the pile grow. In quiet weather
we cut to forestall the storm; in the storm we still cut to be well
ahead for days that may be worse. It is beautifully mild now. On
February first Rockwell brought in some budding twigs. The alders
all seem to be in bud and some charming, red-stemmed shrubs as well.
It is midnight and past. My drawing is finished, the stove is piled
for the night, cereal and beans in place upon it, so--Good-night.
[Illustration: ECSTASY]
Wednesday, February fifth.
A beautiful snowstorm all the day and to-night, still and mild.
Rockwell has been out in it all day dressed in my overalls and
mittens. He plays seal and swims in the deep snow. We built a snow
house together. It is now about seven feet in diameter inside and as
cozy as can be. I'm sure Rockwell will want to sleep there when it's
finished. A curtain of icicles hangs before our little window.
I have carefully figured the cost of our living here from the food
bills, all of which I have kept. I have bought $114.82 worth of
provisions. I still have on hand $19.10 worth. For one hundred and
fifty days it has cost us sixty-four cents a day for two, or
thirty-two cents each,--a little over ten cents a meal. This for the
current high prices everywhere and additionally high in Alaska seems
very reasonable living. The figures include the very expensive
Christmas luxuries.
Friday, February seventh.
Yesterday, THE SUN! For how many days he might have been shining at us
I don't know, for it has been cloudy. However at noon it was all over
the ground about us and shining in at my window. What a joyous sight
after months of shadow! To-night the sun at setting again almost
reached us. And yesterday as if spring had already come we begin the
day with snow baths at sunrise. Ha! That's the real morning bath! And
to-day again. We step out-of-doors and plunge full length into the
deep snow, scour our bodies with it, and rush back into the sheltering
house and the red-hot stove. To Rockwell belongs all credit, or blame,
for this madness. He _will_ do it--and I'm ashamed not to follow.
These two days have been cold and windy, north days,--but how
beautiful! All of the day Rockwell plays out-of-doors swimming in the
deep snow, now a seal, again a walrus. Gee, he's the great fellow for
northern weather. Cooked the filthy fox mess yesterday, washed clothes
to-day, sawed wood on both. Now it's twelve-thirty at night and I'm
tired.
Saturday, February eighth.
All about me stand the drawings of my series, the "Mad Hermit." They
look mighty fine to me. Myself with whiskers and hair! First, to-day,
when the storm abated a bit, we sank a bag of fish in the lake and
then started on snowshoes for the ridge to the eastward. The snow lay
in the woods there heavy and deep. No breath of wind had touched it.
The small trees, loaded, bent double making shapes like frozen
fountains. Some little trees with their branches starting far from the
ground formed with their drooping limbs domed chambers about their
stems. Coming down it was great sport. We could slide down even in our
sticky snowshoes. Rockwell, who was soaked through, undressed and
spent the afternoon naked, playing wild animal about the cabin. Then
at six-thirty we both had hot baths, and snow baths following. I begin
to relish the snow bath. Rockwell was the picture of health and beauty
afterwards with his rose-red cheeks and blue eyes.
Monday, February tenth.
Yesterday morning I bathed in a snowstorm, this morning it was too
terribly, howlingly blusterous to run out into it. And now since one
o'clock it is as calm and mild as it ever could be. Within the cabin
it's even more cozy than usual. The snow is banked up against the big
window to a third the window's height. By day the light seems
curtained, by night doubly bright from reflected lamplight. Heavy
drifts are everywhere. Last night fine snow filtered in upon our
faces as we slept but not enough to be uncomfortable. The cabin is
fortunately placed as to drifts and our door-yard remains clear with a
splendid bathing bank skirting it. Rockwell is at work now upon
multiplication tables. He's a real student and is always seriously
occupied with something in his hours indoors.