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.
[Illustration: 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.
[Illustration: 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 we would 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 know
Is, you are Joe,
Why this is so
I do not know;
But well I know
You _will_ be Joe,
Until you go
From earth below.
But even so,
My young friend Joe,
Before you go
You'll _not_ be Joe,
(The same _I_ know)
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 know
And say are _so_.
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 slow
To say you know
A thing is so.
'Cause then you'll know
That what _was_ so
When you were Joe
May not be so
When you're not Joe;
And that _is_ so
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 fro
The world you go;
That which you know
Declare 'tis _so_;
And so _be_ Joe,
The Joe I know,
"Chickadee Joe."
[Illustration]