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RO CKWELL

ALASKA MCMXVIII

WILDERNESS

A JOURNAL OF QUIET ADVENTURE

IN ALASKA
BY

ROCKWELL KENT

WITH DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR
AND AN INTRODUCTION BY

DOROTHY CANFIELD

G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
fmtcfcerbocfcer

1920

PLATES ENGRAVED UNDER THE SUPERVISION OF WILLIAM G. WATT

THE NEW YORK

JBRARY

ASTOR, LENOX AND
TM.DBN

. . ••*: .«. •••

v *.•: : •. •-•»:: :
• • ••**..*:'..::..:

THE KNICKERBOCKER PRESS, NEW YORK

old L, MX Olson and

young Rockwell Kent

c»/ /-"OJT Island

this journal is

respectfully de>tic?

The author acknowledges the courtesy of the owners of his
drawings in permitting their reproduction in this book:

MRS. ERNEST I. WHITE

ROBERT NICHOLS

STEPHEN C. CLARK

MRS. PAYNE THOMPSON

MRS. JOSEPH FLANNERY

MRS. J. S. MORGAN, JR.

DR. ARNOLD KLEBS

HENRY S. CHURCHILL

MRS. PERCY W. DARBYSHIRE

MRS. MEREDITH HARE

PAUL MANSHIP

MRS. VALENTINE WINTERS

HENRY NEWMAN

HUNT DIEDERICH

PURCELL JONES

M. KNOEDLER AND COMPANY

ALBERT STERNER

MARIE STERNER

INTRODUCTION

^ AD jesting Pilate asked "What is Art?" he would
L^^ have waited quite as many centuries for an answer as
J\ \ he has for the answer to his question about Truth.
m W For art to the artist, and art to the rest of us, are two

^^^ f^ very different things. Art to the artist is quite simply
Life, his life, of which he has an amplitude and in-
tensity unknown to us. What he does for us is to thrill us awake
to the amplitude and intensity of all life, our own included. And
this is a miracle for which we can never be thankful enough.

This, at least, is what Rockwell Kent's Alaska drawings and
Alaska journal do for me; they take me away from that tired
absorption in things of little import which makes up most of our
human life and make me see, not an unreal world of romantic
illusion, that fool's pleasure given by the second-rate artist, but
the real wonder-world in which I live and have always lived.
They make me see suddenly that there is a vast deal more in the

• •

VII

INTRODUCTION

world than embittering and anxious preoccupations, that much of it
is fine, much is comforting, much awe-inspiring, much profoundly
tragic, and all of it makes up a whole so vast that no living organism
need feel cramped.

No other of the qualities of the journal and drawings goes home
to me more than the unforced authenticity of the impression set
down by this strong and ardent artist. Emerson's grandeur is in-
finitely more convincing to me because of his homeliness, and I feel
a perverse Yankee suspicion of those who deal in sublimities only.
The man who can extract the whole quaint savor out of that
magical, prosaic, humorous moment of human life, the first stretch-
ing yawn of the early morning, that man can make me believe that
I too see the north wind running mightily athwart the sky. And the
artist who can put into the simplest drawing of a man and a little
boy eating together at a rough table in a rough cabin, all the dear
solidity of family and home life, with its quiet triumph against over-
powering Nature, that artist can make me bow my head before the
sincerity of his impressive " Night."

The homeliness of the diary, its courageously unaffected natural-
ness, how it carries one out of fussy complications to a long breath
of relief in the fewness and permanence of things that count ! And
the humor of it ... sometimes deliciously unintentional like the
picture of the artist finishing a fine drawing, setting the beans to
soak, bathing in the bread pan, and going to bed to read a chapter of
Blake, sometimes intentional and shrewd like " a banana-peel on a
mountain-top tames that wilderness," or " colds, like bad temper
and loss of faith, are a malady of the city crowd " ; sometimes outright
and hearty like a child's joke, as in the amusingly faithful portrait of
the pot-bellied, self-important personality of the air-tight stove !

There are only three human characters in this quiet, intense
record, all of them significant and vital. First of them is the artist

• ••

Vlll

INTRODUCTION

himself, who in these notes, written originally for the eyes of his in-
timates only, speaks out with a free unselfconsciousness as rare in
our modern world as the virgin solitude of the island where he lived.
Here is the artist at work, creating, as Henry James said he could
not be shown; the artist, that is, a man violently alive, full-blooded
and fine, fierce and pure, arrogant and tender, with an elate, boastful,
well-founded certainty of his strength, rejoicing in his work, in his
son, in his friend, in the whole visible world, and most of all in himself
and his own vigorous possibilities for good, evil, and creative work.

The other two human characters in this adventuring quest after
great and simple things are acquisitions to be thankful for, also ; the
touchingly tender-hearted, knight-like, beautiful, funny little boy;
and lovable, dignified old Olson ... a fiction writer wonders in
despair why old Olson so vividly, brilliantly lives in these unstudied
pages, solid, breathing, warm, as miraculously different from all other
human beings as any creature of flesh and blood who draws the
mysterious breath of life beside you in the same room.

Fox Island lives too; we walk about it, treading solidly, loving
" every log and rotten stump, gnarled tree, every mound and path,
the rocks and brooks, each a being in itself, " just as little Rockwell
does; and we climb with the " two younger ones up the sheer, snow-
covered ridge till across the great jagged teeth of Fenris-the-Wolf,
we see the glory of the open sea." We " look up at Olson, swaying
gigantic on the deck above us, as we bump the side in our little boat "
and we go down into the warm cabin full of the fumes of cooking and
good-fellowship, and drink with the old skipper and the old Swede till
we too see deep "under the white hard surface of where life is
hidden."

All this firm earth gives authority and penetration to the shining
beauty which pervades the book and the drawings, carries us along
to share it, not merely to look at it; to feel it, not merely to admire it.

INTRODUCTION

The notes here published were written, I believe, day by day for
the author's wife and children, and are here published almost as
they were set down, as commentary to the drawings. Well, let us be
thankful that we were let into the family circle and along with them
can spend six months in the midst of strength and beauty and tender-
ness and fun and majesty, close to simple things, great because they
are real. The author may be sure that we leave them with the same
backward-looking wistfulness he feels, and with the same gratitude
for having known them.

Dorothy Canfield.

PREFACE

Xi^f^f^^OST of this book was written on Fox Island in Alaska,
jm I a journal added to from day to day. It was not
m W m m meant for publication but merely that we who were
^r f F living there that year might have always an unfailing
memory of a wonderfully happy time. There's a ring of truth to all
freshly written records of experience that, whatever their short-
comings, makes them at least inviolable. Besides the journal, a
few letters to friends have been drawn upon. All are given un-
changed but for the flux of a new paragraph or chapter here and
there to form a kind of narrative, the only possible literary ac-
companiment to the drawings of that period herein published. The
whole is a picture of quiet adventure in the wilderness, above all
an adventure of the spirit.

What one would look for in a story of the wild Northwest is
lacking in these pages. To have been further from a settled town
might have brought not more but less excitement. The wonder of
the wilderness was its tranquillity. It seemed that there both men
and the wild beasts pursued their own paths freely and, as if con-
scious of the wide freedom of their world, molested one another not
at all. It was the bitter philosophy of the old trapper who was our
companion that of all animals Man was the most terrible; for if

•

PREFACE

the beasts fought and killed for some good cause Man slew for
none.

Deliberately I have begun this happy story far out in Resurrection
Bay; — and again dropped its peaceful thread on the forlorn thresh-
old of the town. We found Fox Island on Sunday, August
twenty-fifth, 1918, and left there finally on the seventeenth of the
following March.

R. K.

Arlington, Vermont,
December, 1919.

CONTENTS

Page

Introduction ........ vii

Preface ........ xi

Chapter

I. — Discovery ........ i

II. — Arrival ......... 10

III. — Chores ......... 41

IV. — Winter ......... 67

V. — Waiting 84

VI. — Excursion . .102

VII. — Home 109

VIII. — Christmas . . . . . . . .134

IX. — New Year ........ 150

X. — Olson. ........ 182

XI. — Twilight 200

Xlll

ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing Page

" Zarathustra Himself Led the Ugliest Man by the Hand, in
Order to Show Him His Night- World and the Great Round

Moon and the Silvery Waterfalls Nigh Unto His Cave" . 2

Unknown Waters ........ 6

Home Building ......... 12

Fire Wood . . . . . . . . . .16

The Sleeper ......... 20

The Windlass 24

The Snow Queen ........ 28

Fox Island, Resurrection Bay, Kenai Peninsula, Alaska . . 32

Rain Torrents ......... 36

Day ........... 42

Night .......... 46

Wilderness ......... 50

One of Rockwell's Drawings . . . . . .54

Sunrise .......... 56

Adventure ......... 60

ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing Page

On the Height ......... 68

The Day's Work 72

Meal Time ......... 76

Day's End . . . . . . . . 80

The Cabin Window . . . . . . . .90

" Go to Bed " 94

Driftwood .......... 98

TheWhittler 104

"Get Up!" no

Man . . . . . . . . . .114

Woman .......... 118

Foreboding 124

Lone Man ......... 128

Cain .......... 136

Superman ......... 140

The North Wind . 146

Another of Rockwell's Drawings 152

Weltschmerz 154

Victory 158

Zarathustra and His Playmates 164

Frozen Fall 168

The Hermit 172

xvi

ILLUSTRATIONS

Facing Page

Ecstasy ...... ... 176

Pelagic Reverie . ...... 184

Prison Bars ....... 188

Running Water ......... 192

Immanence ......... 196

The Vision ....... 202

The Imperishable . . . . . . . . 206

The Star-Lighter . . . . . . . .210

xvii

CHAPTER I

DISCOVERY

E must have been rowing for an hour across that
seeming mile-wide stretch of water.

The air is so clear in the North that one new to
it is lost in the crowding of great heights and spaces.
Distant peaks had risen over the lower mountains of
the shore astern. Steep spruce-clad slopes confronted us. All around
was the wilderness, a no-man's-land of mountains or of cragged
islands, and southward the wide, the limitless, Pacific Ocean.

A calm, blue summer's day, — and on we rowed upon our search.
Somewhere there must stand awaiting us, as we had pictured it, a
little forgotten cabin, one that some prospector or fisherman had
built ; the cabin, the grove, the sheltered beach, the spring or stream
of fresh, cold water, — we could have drawn it even to the view that it
must overlook, the sea, and mountains, and the glorious West. We
came to this new land, a boy and a man, entirely on a dreamer's
search ; having had vision of a Northern Paradise, we came to find it.
With less faith it might have seemed to us a hopeless thing
exploring the unknown for what you've only dreamed was there.
Doubt never crossed our minds. To sail uncharted waters and

WILDERNESS

follow virgin shores — what a life for men! As the new coast
unfolds itself the imagination leaps into full vision of the human
drama that there is immanent. The grandeur of the ocean cliff is
terrible with threat of shipwreck. To that high ledge the wave may
lift you ; there, where that storm-dwarfed spruce has found a hold for
half a century, you perhaps could cling. A hundred times a day you
think of death or of escaping it by might and courage. Then at the
first softening of the coast toward a cove or inlet you imagine all the
mild beauties of a safe harbor, the quiet water and the beach to land
upon, the house-site, a homestead of your own, cleared land, and
pastures that look seaward.

Now having crossed the bay thick wooded coast confronted us,
and we worked eastward toward a wide-mouthed inlet of that shore.
But all at once there appeared as if from nowhere a little, motor-
driven dory coming toward us. We hailed and drew together to
converse. It was an old man alone. We told him frankly what we
were and what we sought.

* Come with me, " he cried heartily, " come and I show you the
place to live. ' And he pointed oceanward where, straight in the
path of the sun stood the huge, dark, mountain mass of an island.
Then, seizing upon our line, he towed us with him to the south.

The gentle breeze came up. With prow high in the air we spanked
the wavelets, and the glistening spray flew over us. On we went
straight at the dazzling sun and we laughed to think that we were
being carried we knew not where. And all the while the strange old
man spoke never a word nor turned his head, driving us on as if he
feared we might demand to be unloosed. At last his island towered
above us. It was truly sheer-sided and immense, and for all we could
discover harborless; till in a moment rounding the great headland of
its northern end the crescent arms of the harbor were about us,—
and we were there !

"ZARATHUSTRA HIMSELF LED THE UGLIEST MAN BY THE HAND,
IN ORDER TO SHOW HIM HIS NIGHT-WORLD AND THE GREAT
ROUND MOON AND THE SILVERY WATERFALLS NIGH UNTO
HIS CAVE"

DISCOVERY

What a scene ! Twin lofty mountain masses flanked the entrance
and from the back of these the land dipped downwards like a ham-
mock swung between them, its lowest point behind the center of the
crescent. A clean and smooth, dark-pebbled beach went all around
the bay, the tide line marked with driftwood, gleaming, bleached
bones of trees, fantastic roots and worn and shredded trunks. Above
the beach a band of brilliant green and then the deep, black spaces of
the forest. So huge was the scale of all of this that for some time we
looked in vain for any habitation, at last incredulously seeing what
we had taken to be bowlders assume the form of cabins.

The dories grounded and we leapt ashore, and followed up the
beach onto the level ground seeing and wondering, with beating
hearts, and crying all the time to ourselves : " It isn't possible, it isn't
real!"

There was a green grass lawn beneath our feet extending on one
side under an orchard of neatly pruned alders to the mountain's base,
and on the other into the forest or along the shore. In the midst of the
clearing stood the old man's cabin. He led us into it. One little
room, neat and comfortable ; two windows south and west with the
warm sun streaming through them; a stove, a table by the window
with dishes piled neatly on it; some shelves of food and one of books
and papers; a bunk with gaily striped blankets; boots, guns, tools,
tobacco-boxes ; a ladder to the store-room hi the loft. And the old
man himself : a Swede, short, round and sturdy, head bald as though
with a priestly tonsure, high cheek bones and broad face, full lips, a
sensitive small chin,— and his little eyes sparkled with good humor.

" Look, this is all mine, " he was saying; " you can live here with
me— with me and Nanny, "—for by this time not only had the milk
goat Nanny entered but a whole family of foolish-faced Angoras,
father, mother, and child, nosing among us or overturning what they
could in search of food. He took us to the fox corral a few yards from

WILDERNESS

the house. There were the blues in its far corner eying us askance.
We saw the old goat cabin built of logs and were told of a newer one,
an unused one down the shore and deeper in the woods.

" But come, " he said with pride, " I show you my location notice.
I have done it all in the proper way and I will get my title from Wash-
ington soon. I have staked fifty acres. It is all described in the
notice I have posted; and I would like to see anybody get that away

from me. '

By now we had reached the great spruce tree to whose trunk he
had affixed a sort of roofed tablet or shrine to house the precious
document. But, ah look ! the tablet was bare I only that from a small
nail in it hung a torn shred of paper.

" Billy, Nanny! " roared the old man in irritation and mock rage;
and he shook his fist at the foolish looking culprits who regarded us
this time, wisely, from a distance. " And now come to the lake ! '

We went down an avenue through the tall spruce trees. The sun
flecked our path and fired here and there a flame-colored mushroom
that blazed in the forest gloom. Right and left we saw deep vistas,
and straight ahead a broad and sunlit space, a valley between hills ;
there lay the lake. It was a real lake, broad and clean, of many acres
in extent, and the whole mountain side lay mirrored in it with the
purple zenith sky at our feet. Not a breath disturbed the surface, not
a ripple broke along the pebbly beach ; it was dead silent here but for
maybe the far off sound of surf, and without motion but that high
aloft two eagles soared with steady whig searching the mountain tops.
Ah, supreme moment! These are the times in life — when nothing
happens — but in quietness the soul expands.

Time pressed and we turned back. " Show us that other cabin,
we must go. "

The old man took us by a short cut to the cabin he had spoken of.
It stood in a darkly shadowed clearing, a log cabin of ample size with

UNKNOWN WATERS

DISCOVERY

a small doorway that you stooped to enter. Inside was dark but for
a little opening to the west. There were the stalls for goats, coops for
some Belgian hares he had once kept, a tin whirligig for squirrels
hanging in the gable peak, and under foot a shaky floor covered with
filth.

But I knew what that cabin might become. I saw it once and said,
" This is the place we'll live. " And then returning to our boat we
shook hands on this great, quick finding of the thing we'd sought and,
since we could not stay then as he begged us to, promised a speedy
return with all our household goods. " Olson's my name, " he said,
" I need you here. We'll make a go of it. "

The south wind had risen and the white caps flew. We crossed the
bay pulling lustily for very joy. Reaching the other shore we saw,
too late, crossing the bay in search of us the small white sail of the
party that had brought us part way from the town. So we turned and
followed them until at last we met to their relief and the great satis-
faction of our tired arms.

of Northwest Harbor. Resurrection ^ay-^asK^; J^"f-?*f4'^'

6 fan

Otter
1O Srrft-arood

CHAPTER II
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
Evenrude motor hi 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 hi 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 :

i Yukon stove

4 lengths stovepipe

i broom

i bread pan

i wash basin

i bean pot
i mixing bowl
Turpentine
Linseed oil
Nails, etc.

ARRIVAL

10 gals, gasoline
10 Ibs. rice

5 Ibs. barley

10 Ibs. cornmeal
10 Ibs. rolled oats
10 Ibs. hominy
10 Ibs. farina
10 Ibs. sugar
50 Ibs. flour
2 packages bran

6 cans cocoa
i Ib. tea

i case milk
8 Ibs. chocolate
i gal. sirup
i gal. cooking oil

1 piece bacon

2 cans dried eggs

2 cans baked beans
6 lemons

2 packages pancake flour
10 Ibs. 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

i roll building paper
i frying pan

3 bread tins

10 Ibs. lima beans
10 Ibs. white beans

5 Ibs. Mexican beans
10 Ibs. spaghetti

12 cans tomatoes
100 Ibs. potatoes
10 Ibs. dried peas
5 Ibs. salt
i gal. peanut butter

1 gal. marmalade
Pepper

Yeast

5 Ibs. prunes
5 Ibs. apricots
5 Ibs. carrots
10 Ibs. onions

4 cans soup
12 candles

2 Dutch Cleanser
Matches

i 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

WILDERNESS

best we could, seated somehow atop our household goods; we un-
loaded our useless motor, our gasoline, and our batteries, cleared a
little space in the boat for ourselves to man the oars, and in a miser-
able 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, hi 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 unsuccess-
ful 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 dimen-
sions, 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

HOME BUILDING

ARRIVAL

labor. To describe it is to account for our time almost to the beginning
of the detailed days of this diary.

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 Diirer " (A Short Biography)

"WilhelmMeister"

Nansen's " In Northern Mists "

WILDERNESS

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, en-
larging them until they merged, and the sun began to shine about the
cabin. It grew brighter then and drier, — nonsense I 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.

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. 2Qth.— goats cam ome— 12.30 p. M. Mr. Kint Working on the Cabbin
fixing at up. Drisly rain all night and all day.

Fri. 3oth.— Wary fin day and the goats vant for the montane igan. Help
putting Windoes i to the Cabbin.

Sat. 3 1 st.— Foggy day. Big steamer going to seward.

FIRE WOOD

ARRIVAL

September

Sun. i st. — 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 i P.M.

F. 6. — Drisly rain and Calm Wather.

S. 7. — S. E. rainstorm.

Sun. 8. — Big S. E. rainstorm.

MK (i « K
.9. —

T.io.— " " "

W. II.— 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. 1 8. — 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

WILDERNESS

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 fan- 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 hi 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 cre-
ate clearings, parks, vistas, and make out of a wilderness an ordered
place 1 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—

THE SLEEPER

ARRIVAL

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 '8o'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, Ol-
son, " he said, " and tell us about Alaska from beginning to end."
And the traveler told his long wonder-story to the crowd.

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

WILDERNESS

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 condi-
tions, 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 re-
deem 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 im-
possible 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
hi 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

THE WINDLASS

ARRIVAL

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.

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 " f or 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 encoun-
tered 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 for-
tunately 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.

WILDERNESS

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 cowA/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 head-
land 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

THE SNOW QUEEN

ARRIVAL

securely. Mine was soon beside it. The tides and heavy seas of this
time of year make every precaution necessary.

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. Rock-
well read nine pages hi 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

WILDERNESS

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 f arina,
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."

FOX ISLAND, RESURRECTION BAY, KENAI PENINSULA, ALASKA

ARRIVAL

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 excite-
ment. On the path in the woods near the outlet of the lake he had
seen at one tune 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 hi 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 to-
ward me in clearing the still wild part of the intervening space be-
tween 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

WILDERNESS

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

^»w/a

RAIN TORRENTS

ARRIVAL

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 pre-
cision 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.

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 steep-
ness 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 Rock-
well, and sat up again.

We could hardly keep fromtfaughing, 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 ex-
plained that I meant no harm to the sweet creature. Rockwell madly

WILDERNESS

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, IVe 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?

CHAPTER III
CHORES

Tuesday, October first.

it rained ! We attended first to our fascinating
chores, plying the cross-cut saw as the drizzle fell.
Then we went to work as artists, Rockwell with his
water colors and I with my oils. Rockwell has a
number of good drawings of the country here and of
the things that have thrilled him.

Pop ! The cork of my jug of new made yeast has just struck the
ceiling. That brew has been a part of this day's work. Hops, pota-
toes, flour, sugar, raisins, and yeast; stewed and strained and bottled.
To-day also was completed and served the first

Fox Island Corn Souffle

" Take two cups of samp (whole hominy) and stew for an indefinite time
in salted water (it should cook at least three or four hours). It should

WILDERNESS

boil almost dry. Make of the remainder of the water and some milk two
cups of cream sauce dissolving in it some cheese. Mix with the corn and
pour into a baking dish. Spread cheese over the top and put into oven to
brown. "

We offer this delicious discovery to the world on the condition
only that " Fox Island Corn Souffle " shall be printed on the menu
wherever it is used.

I made to-day a grandfather's chair for myself. It is as comfort-
able as it is beautiful.

Every day I read in the " History of Irish Literature. " The
Deirdre Saga I read to-day. It must be one of the most beautiful and
the most perfect stories in all the world. So little do we feel ourselves
related, here in this place, to any one time or to any civilization that
at a thought we and our world become whom and what we please.
Rockwell has been a cave dweller hunting the primeval forest with
a stone hatchet and a bow of alder strung with a root. To me it is the
heroic age in Ireland.

Wednesday, October second.

Incessant, hard rain. The two artists at their work a good part
of the day, Rockwell making several new drawings in his book of
wonderful animals. We bathed and I washed the accumulated
clothes of several weeks. And to-night Olson came for a long call.
He's a good story teller and his experiences are without end. And so
closes this day — with the rain still pouring monotonously on the roof.

Thursday, October third.

To-day was fair at sunrise, cloudy at nine o'clock, and showery
all the rest. We worked again with the beloved cross-cut saw,
setting ourselves an almost unattainable task — and then surpass-

DAY

CHORES

ing it. And I cleared the thicket for a better view of the mountain
to the south ; and in the afternoon felled another large tree. Stretched
canvass for a while; and painted and drew, and felt the goddess
Inspiration returning to me.

Olson, Rockwell, and I, with levers and blocks, turned aud
emptied the three boats that the recent rams had almost filled.
Already we fear the frost. The mountains have been capped with
snow, all green has gone from their sides; the dark season is near
at hand.

Rockwell is ever sweet, industrious, and happy. He is beautiful
after his bath.

Friday, October fourth.

A gloriously lovely day, a cloudless sky and the wind in the
north. That puts life into men! Up at sunrise, we two. Before
breakfast the axe was going, and afterwards we brought down two
mighty trees. (The trees of this part of Alaska are not to be com-
pared with the giants of the Western States. Two feet is a large
diameter.) Then I painted for a while futilely, the green and wind
blown sea, the pink mountains, snowy peaks, and golden morning
sky.

Rockwell and I couldn't restrain our spirits and had to clamber
up the steep mountain side ; up, up we went straight above our clear-
ings ; and soon, in looking back, the bay, the lake, and our neck of land
lay like a map below us. Cliffs and the steep slopes baffled us at times
but we found a way at last to reach the peak of the spur above us.
There it was like a pavilion, a round knoll carpeted with moss, a ring
of slender, clean-trunked trees ; and beyond that nothing nearer than
the sea nine hundred feet below. Coming down we ran across a
porcupine toiling up the slope. We played with him a bit and finally

WILDERNESS

let him climb a tree. Olson would have had us bring him home for
dinner. They're said to taste good.

We cut with the saw a while hi the afternoon. Rockwell drew and
I made two more sketches— one a good one. The evening at sun-
down was more brilliant even than the day. For such days as this
we have come to Alaska !

Saturday, October fifth.

A hard day full of little bits of work. Sawed up a tree alone, — to
punish Rockwell ! for not studying. Calking the east side of the cabin
—the last side. Painted, baked, and built myself an arrangement
out-of-doors to sketch hi comfort. I sit on the board with my palette
— a box end — secured before me and my picture above it. Rockwell
took his punishment so to heart that in the afternoon he read ten
pages in his book. All of to-day has been overcast, but with a clean,
refreshing atmosphere. In the account of Anson's voyage around the
Horn it is remarked that fair weather in those latitudes rarely lasts.
It may be true of the same latitudes north.

Monday, October seventh.

Yesterday I wrote nothing in the diary — there was nothing to
write, but that it rained. " Rain like Hell " Olson's journal doubtless
reads, — and ditto for to-day.

The storm is even harder now. The wind strikes our cabin first
from the west, then north, east, and south. The surface of the cove
is seething under the cross squalls; that is called the " wullys. " A
boat not strongly managed would be whipped round and round.
Olson has been much hi to see us, lonely old man ! I drop my draw-
ing while he is here and take to stretching canvass, all the while
yarning with him. Rockwell likes the calls as a diversion. Rock-

NIGHT

CHORES

well's good humor and contentment is without limit. He draws with
the deepest interest hours a day, reads for a time, and plays — talking
to himself.

We have good hearty fights together in which Rockwell attacks
me with all his strength and I hit back with force in self-defense.
We have a good time washing dishes, racing, — the washer, myself,
to beat the dryer. Rockwell falls down onto the floor in the midst of
the race in a fit of laughter. Rockwell's happiness is not complete
until I spank him. I grab the struggling creature and throw him down,
trying to hold both his hands and feet to have free play in beating
him. This I do with some strength sometimes using a stick of kindling
wood. The more it hurts the better Rockwell likes it — up to a limit
that we never reach.

So much for the day's play. Of our work mine is mostly
over the drawing table. Both yesterday and to-day I made good
drawings; and my ideas come crowding along fast. Cooking,
somehow, is the least troublesome of all the daily chores. We
live, as may be imagined, with a simplicity that would send a
Hoover delegate flying from the door in dismay. This is our
daily fare:

BREAKFAST

(invariably the same)
Oatmeal
Cocoa
Bread and Peanut Butter

DINNER

Beans (one of several kinds and several ways)

or
Fox Island Corn Souffle

WILDERNESS

Spaghetti

Peas

Vegetable stew (barley, carrots, onions, potatoes)

and

Potatoes or rice

and (often)
Prunes or apricots or apples (dried)

SUPPER

(invariably the same)

Farina

Corn bread with peanut butter or marmalade
Tea for father, milk for son

And sometimes dessert — stewed fruit, chocolate, or, when Olson
gives it, goat milk junket.

Let us here record that to this date we have had not the least little
sickness, — only glowing health and good spirits.

Tuesday, October eighth.

RAIN ! But what difference does it make to us. Everyone is in a
good humor. The house is warm and dry ; we've lots to eat and lots
to do.

Olson's dory was again half full of water so we turned her and the
skiff over. I stretched canvass and primed it and finished Anson's
" Voyage Around the World " a thrilling book. Late this afternoon it
began to clear; the sun shone and we were presently at work with the
saw — only to be driven in again by the shower. I expect fair weather
to-morrow. But

WILDERNESS

CHORES

Wednesday, October ninth.

Fair weather is still as far away as ever, unless a sharp but cloudy
afternoon and sundown with brilliant light in the western sky spell
change. Olson says the foxes will not eat to-night and that this is
invariably a sign of change to good days — that in bad weather they
eat and in fair they abstain. It poured in the morning and we worked
indoors. After dinner we all moved a lumber pile that stood on the
shore abreast of our cabin to a place nearer Olson's — this only to
better our view of the water. We sawed wood for a while and piled
all that we have so far cut ready for winter use. There are in all
fifty sections of short stove wood. That is a month and a half's supply.
I painted towards evening, and made two good sketches.

The nights have grown colder. For the past two days the moun-
tains across from us, the nearest ones, have been covered with snow
downwards to half their height. The farther ranges have for weeks
been white. They're beautiful and invite one to go climbing and
sliding over their smooth white snowfields. Close to, one would
find impassable crags and crevasses, a howling wind and bitter cold.
Rockwell to-day finished his second book, " The Cave Dwellers. '

Midnight Bulletin : the stars are out, brilliant in a cloudless sky !

Thursday, October tenth.

It's raining ! All day has been overcast, but sharp and clear. It
was for us all a day of hard work. We cleared up the woods between
Olson's cabin and ours carrying one large pile of brush from our door
yard to the beach and burning another huge one. That was a wild
sight as night came. It had become a great fire of logs burning stead-
ily and lighting up all the woods around. It is still burning in the
pouring rain. We sawed a little— always more than keeping pace with
our consumption of wood. Rockwell worked almost the whole day and
went to bed tired. I read to him an hour. He loves to hear poetry.

WILDERNESS

We set an elaborate contrivance to catch a magpie; and were
humiliated by the bird who walked round and round the snare eying

ONE OF ROCKWELL'S DRAWINGS

it wisely, then suddenly rushed in only far enough to secure a piece
of decoy bait— and fled. Painted to-day making a good little sketch,
but, on my first trial of the home-made canvas, finding it to need
more priming. Work ! work !

Friday, October eleventh.

This day we should have been in Seward. It was calm although
it rained from time to time. Olson offered to tow us across to Caine's
Head ; but, the rain coming up as we were about to start in the morn-
ing, we waited till afternoon, started, proceeded half a mile, en-
countered engine trouble, and finally ignominiously rowed home, I
pulling Olson and his motor and Rockwell bringing in our own dory.
If it had not been so late we would have kept on.

CHORES

We have a magpie. I saw one hop into Olson's shed, quickly ran
and closed the door, and there he was. Now he's hi a box-trap cage
set on a specially constructed shelf on our front gable. He's a garru-
lous creature and bites angrily; but he's a youngster and we hope to
teach him to say all sorts of pretty things; Olson says they take
naturally to swearing. So Rockwell has at last a pet.

If only it will hold calm! To-night it is fair and starlight— but
we can never be sure of the weather's constancy. We hold every-
thing in readiness to start in the morning.

Saturday, October twelfth.

A mild and lovely day on our island but in the bay a breeze from
the north that would have made our rowing to Seward difficult.
Still we wait with our things assembled for the trip. We shall go at
the very first good chance. This morning Olson cleared the limbs
from the trees about us to ten or twelve feet from the ground. Only
the tall, clean trunks are now between us and our mountains across
the bay. I painted most of the afternoon. My canvas is still quite
impossible — rough and absorbent. We built a large cage for the
magpie he was so restless in his small one. And now he's quite
contented.

Rockwell said to-day that he would like to live here always.
That when he was grown he'd come here with his many children and
me, if I was not dead, and stay. It is hard to write, it is hard to work,
with the trip to Seward at hand. Olson says it is Sunday. I think
he's right. Somehow I've missed a day.

Sunday, October thirteenth.

(I still keep to my chronology until we find out from Seward where
we stand.) A wonderfully beautiful day with a raging northwest

WILDERNESS

wind. I must sometime honor the northwest wind in a great picture
as the embodiment of clean, strong, exuberant life, the joy of every
young thing, bearing energy on its wings and the will to triumph.
How I remember at Monhegan on such a day, when it seemed that
every living thing must emerge from its house or its hole or its nest
to breathe the clean air and exult in it; when men could stand on the
hilltops and look far over the green sea and the distant land and
delight in the infinite detail of the view, discerning distant ships
at sea and remote blue islands, and, over the land, sparkling cities
and such enchanting forests and pastures that the spirit leaped the
intervening miles and with a new delight claimed the whole earth to
the farthest mountains — and beyond ; on such a day there crept from
his hole an artist, and, shading his squinting eyes with his hand,
saluted the day with a groan. " How can one paint? " he said, " such
sharpness ! Here is no mystery, no beauty. " And he crept back, this
fog lover, to wait for earth's sick spell to return.

This morning the magpie sang — or recited poetry ; he made strange
glad noises in his throat — and that in a cage ! We worked, the rest
of us, like mad. At five-thirty Olson, resting at last, said: " Well,
you've done a great day's work. " And after that I painted a sketch,
cut and trimmed three small spruce trees; and then, it being dark,
prepared supper.

But when do we go to Seward? My bag is packed. Olson begins
each day by testing his motor. The wind must moderate in time.
We see it pass our cove driving the water as in a mill-race. To-day
it swept the cove itself.

Rockwell went for a walk in the woods; he has a delightful time
on his rambles, discovering goats' wool on the bushes, following the
paths of the porcupines to their holes, and to-day finding the porcu-
pine himself. He always returns with some marvelous discovery or
new enthusiasm over his explorations. He has been practicing writ-

SUNRISE

CHORES

ing to-day. He says that if he could only write he would put down
the wonderful stories of his dreams. These stories would run into
volumes.

Tuesday, October fifteenth.

Yesterday we left the island. The day was calm though cloudy,
and at times it rained. Olson towed us to Caine's Head. From there
we made good time Rockwell rowing like a seasoned oarsman, as
indeed he has now a right to be called. We stopped at the camp
where we had in August left our broken-down engine, and brought
that away with us, as well as some turnips and half a dozen heads of
beautiful lettuce grown on that spot.

By night it was raining hard and blowing from the southeast.
We spent the evening at the postmaster's house, playing, I, on the
flute to Miss Postmaster's accompaniment. It went splendidly and
until midnight we played Beethoven, Bach, Hayden, Gluck, Tchaikow-
sky, till it seemed like old times at home. Then Rockwell with his
eyes shut in sleep, consumed a piece of apricot pie and a glass of
milk, and we came home bringing along two glasses of wild currant
preserve. I read my letters over and then went to bed. But the
storm raged by that time and I couldn't sleep for worry about my
boat. At last I rose and dressed and went down to the shore. The
dory was safely stranded but too low down. So with great toil I
worked her higher up the beach beyond high water.

To-day it has rained incessantly. I have bought a few odd sup-
plies and registered for the draft.

Above all to-day the engine has resumed its running and we'll
return to Fox Island under power. I know nothing about an engine
but I have eight miles to learn in before the only hazardous part of
the voyage begins. To-night Rockwell and I spent the evening at the
house of a young man whom we've found congenial and who above

WILDERNESS

all is a friend of a young German mechanic for whom I've a liking.
So the four of us sang the evening through, seated before a great
open fire. The house is of logs and stands out of the town on the
border of the wilderness. There are spots like this little house and
its hospitable hearth that show even the commercial desert of Seward
to have its oases. And now we're in our room. Rockwell is asleep in
bed. It is past midnight. I am thinking of dear friends at home, and
I bid them affectionately good-night.

Thursday, October seventeenth.

Yesterday in Seward was about as every other day. We spent it
between letter-writing in our hotel room and visiting from store to
store. It poured rain and blew from the southeast. We spent our
evening with the German. We have planned with him to signal back
and forth from Seward, particularly to send me the news of peace.
If I can distinguish, with glasses a high-powered electric light that he
will show from a house on the highest point in the town, then, by
means of the Morse code with which I am furnished and which he
knows, I'll receive messages on appointed days.

To-night Rockwell and I went a quarter of a mile down our beach
to a point that commands a view up the bay to Seward and lighted a
bonfire there. Boehm, the German, was regarding us, we presume,
through a telescope. On Sunday night, if it is clear, we are to look
for his light. The difficulty will be to distinguish it from others.

We left Seward this morning at 9.45, our dory laden with about
one thousand pounds of freight — including ourselves. The little
three and one half horse-power motor worked splendidly and carried
us to the island in a little over two and a quarter hours. The day was
calm, to begin with, with a rising north wind as we crossed from
Caine's Head. On the island we found a visitor. There had been two
other men but they were gone to Seward the night before. All had

ADVENTURE

CHORES

been on Monday forced by the rough sea to turn back from attempt-
ing to go around the westward cape. The old fellow who is still here
told me to-night that in the twenty years that he had been in Alaska
he had never seen such weather. That's good news. At Seward the
mountains are covered with snow to within a few hundred feet of the
town's level. I'm tired. This ends to-day. Incidentally my dates
proved to be correct when I reached Seward.

Oh, I've almost forgotten our loss. The poor magpie lay dead on
the floor of his cage. So we found him, killed, I believe, by the storm,
for Olson neglected to cover him. Rockwell, who straight on landing
had run there, wept bitterly but finally found much consolation in
giving him a very decent burial and marking the spot with a wooden
cross.

Friday, October eighteenth.

The night is beautiful beyond thought. All the bay is flooded with
moonlight and in that pale glow the snowy mountains appear whiter
than snow itself. The full moon is almost straight above us, and
shining through the tree tops into our clearing makes the old stumps
quite lovely with its quiet light. And the forest around is as black as
the abyss. Although it is nearly ten o'clock Rockwell is still awake.
It is his birthday — by our choice. His one present, a cheap child's
edition of Wood's " Natural History," illustrated, has filled his head
with dreams of his beloved wild animals. I began to-night to teach
him to sing. We tried Brahms's " Wiegenlied," with little success,
and then "Schlaf, Kindlein, Schlaf," which went better. These
songs and many other German songs, all with English words, are in
the song book I bought him. I hope I shall have the patience and
the time to succeed with Rockwell in this.

Three men are now with Olson in his cabin, for the two who were
gone to Seward returned to-day. They are younger men, one of them

WILDERNESS

Emsweiler a well-known guide of this country. I spent an interesting
hour with them this evening. Olson told me to-day that his age is
seventy-one. The smell of fresh bread is in our cabin, for I baked
to-day. Baking, wood-cutting, darning of socks, putting the cabin
in order, and the building of a shelf, these, with the other usual chores,
were the whole day's work; a profitless day lies on my conscience.
I shall draw a little and then go to bed.

Saturday, October nineteenth.

To-day was raw and cloudy, mild and sunny ; hi the morning windy,
in the afternoon dead calm so that the hills were reflected in the bay.
The men have left, I am glad to say, not that they were in themselves
at all objectionable, but it somehow did violence to the quiet of this
place to have others about. Emsweiler slaughtered one of the goats
for Olson, so there's now one less of us here. I felled a large tree
to-day and later sharpened the cross-cut saw preparatory to cutting it
up. To-night the sun set in the utmost splendor and left in its wake
blazing, fire-red clouds in a sky of luminous green. Not many more
days shall we see the sun ; it sets now close to the southern headland
of our cove.

Rockwell works every day on his wild animal book. To obtain
absolutely new and original names for his strange creatures he has
devised an interesting method. With eyes closed he prints a name or
rather a group of miscellaneous letters. Naturally the result he per-
ceives on opening his eyes is astonishing.

Sunday, October twentieth.

It has been a beautiful, clear, cold, violent northwest day. I've
painted on and off all day with wood cutting between. One can't
stop going hi such weather, and out-of-doors you can't stand still for
it is too icy cold and windy.

CHORES

Rockwell and I have just now, eight o'clock, returned from down
the beach where we went to look for lights from Seward. But we
could distinguish nothing meant for us. The moon has risen and
illuminates the mountain tops— but we and all our cove are still in
the deep shadow of the night. It is most dramatic ; the spruces about
us deepen the shadow to black while above them the stone faces of
the mountain glisten and the sky has the brightness of a kind of

day. Olson brought us goat chops for dinner. We could not have told
them from lamb.

This afternoon late a small power boat appeared in the bay at-
tempting to make its way toward Seward. After some progress the
wind forced her steadily and swiftly back. When we last saw her
she seemed to be trying to make the shelter of our island or one of the
outer islands, the while driving steadily seaward. It's a wild night
to be out in the bay though doubtless calm at sea. It is such an ad-
venture that we must be on our guard against. As we look across the
bay toward Bear Glacier, which is hidden by a point of land, we can
see the effect of the north wind sweeping down the glacier, a mist

WILDERNESS

driving seaward. It is nothing less than the fine spray of that
wind-swept water.

Monday, October twenty-first.

It is so late that I shall write only a little. To-day was again won-
derful, a true golden and blue northwest day. I have painted and
sawed wood, and built myself a splendid six-legged saw horse. Olson
thinks I have already cut my winter's supply of wood — but it seems
to me far from it. Rockwell has been most of the day at his own
animal book, making some strange and beautiful birds. This morn-
ing the ground was frozen with a hard crust. It did not thaw through-
out the day, and again to-night it is very cold. Winter is at last upon
us, the long, long winter. And the sun retreats day by day farther
toward the mountain. I look to the sun's going with a kind of dread.
We have seen nothing of the boat that last night was driven to shelter.
We believe the men to be in the other cove of our island.

CHAPTER IV
WINTER

eNDLESSLY, day after day, the journal goes on record-
ing a dreary monotony of rain and cloud. Who has
ever dwelt so entirely alone that the most living things
hi all the universe about are wind and rain and snow?
Where the elements dominate and control your life,
where at getting up and bedtime and many an hour of night and day
between you question helplessly, as a poor slave his master, the will
of the mighty forces of the sky? Dawn breaks, you jump from bed,
stand barefoot on the threshold of the door, look through the straight
trunked spruces at the brightening world, and read at sight God's
will for one more whole, long day of life. " Ah God ! it rains again."
And sitting on the bed you wearily draw on your heavy boots, and
rainy-spirited begin the special labors of a rainy day. Or maybe, at
the sight of clouds again, you laugh at the dull-minded weather man
or curse at him good naturedly. Still you must do those rainy-

WILDERNESS

weather chores and all the other daily chores in hot wet-weather
garments. That is destiny.

Most of the time, to do ourselves real justice, we met the worst of
weather with a battle cry, worked hard, — and then made up for out-
door dreariness and wet by heaping on the comforts of indoors, — dry,
cozy warmth, good things to eat, and lots to do.

We have reached late fall — for northern latitudes. The sky is
brooding ominously, heavy, dull, and raw. Winter seems to be closing
in upon us. We're driven to work as if in fear. Hurry, hurry! Saw
the great drums of spruce, roll them over the ground and stack them
high. Calk tight with hemp the cabin's windward eaves so that no
breath of wind can enter there and freeze the food inside upon the
shelf. Set up the far-famed air-tight stove where it will keep you
warm, — warm feet in bed and a warm back while painting. Patch
up the poor, storm-battered paper roof, — two or three holes we find
and we are sure it leaks from twenty. About the cabin pile the hem-
lock boughs, dense-leafed and warm, making a green slope almost
to the eaves. Now it looks cozy ! Outside and in the last is done to
make us ready for the winter's worst, and just in time ! It is the
evening of October twenty-second and the feathery snow has just
begun to fall. Olson comes stamping in. " Well, well, " he cries,
" how's this ! How does our winter suit you? " It suits us perfectly.
The house is warm, Rockwell's in bed, and I am reading " Treasure
Island" to him.

" What are you going to make of him? " asked Olson that night
speaking of Rockwell. I was at that moment pouring beans into the
pot for baking. I slowed the stream and dropped them one by one :

' Rich-man, poor-man, beggar-man, thief,
Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief. '

How in the world can anyone lay plans for a youngster's life ? "

ON THE HEIGHT

WINTER

Rockwell lay in his bed dreaming, maybe, of an existence love-
lier far than anything the poor, discouraged imagination of a
man could reach. A child could make a paradise of earth.
Life is so simple ! Unerringly he f ollows his desires making the
greatest choices first, then onward into a narrowing pathway until
the true goal is reached. How can one preach of beauty or teach
another wisdom. These things are of an infinite nature, and in
every one of us in just proportion. There is no priesthood of the
truth.

We live in many worlds, Rockwell and I,— the world of the books
we read,— an always changing one, "Robinson Crusoe," "Treasure
Island," the visionary world of William Blake, the Saga Age, "Water
Babies, " and the glorious Celtic past, — Rockwell's own world of
fancy, kingdom of beasts, the world he dreams about and draws,-
and my created land of striding heroes and poor fate-bound
men — real as I have painted them or to me nothing is, — and then all
round about our common, daily, island-world, itself more wonderful
than we have half a notion of. Is it to be believed that we are here
alone, this boy and I, far north out on an island wilderness, seagirt
on a terrific coast ! It's as we pictured it and wanted it a year and
more ago, — yes, dreams come true.

And now the snow falls softly. Winter, to meet our challenge, has
begun.

Short notes in the journal mark "Treasure Island's" swift
passage. Then enter "Water Babies!" "Just after Rockwell's
heart and mine," I have recorded it. But Kingsley must lose his
friends, — a warning to the snob in literature. How it did weary
us and madden us, his English-gentry pride, — unless we outright
laughed. "At last it's finished. That's an event. When Kingsley
isn't showing off he's moralizing, and between his religious cant and
his English snobbery he is, in spite of his occasional sweet sentiment,

WILDERNESS

quite unendurable. So to-night we read from < Andersen's Fairy
Tales '—forever lovely and true."

Children have their own fine literary taste that we know quite too
little about. They love all real, authentic happenings, and they love
pure fairy tale. But to them fiction in the guise of truth is wrong, and
fairy romance, unconvincing in its details, is ridiculous. Action they
like, the deed— not thoughts about it. Doubtless the simple saga
form is best of all,— life as it happens, neither right nor wrong, words
that they can understand, things they can comprehend, interesting
facts or thrilling fancy. Such simple things delight the child that
half of "Robinson Crusoe" and three quarters of the smug family
from Switzerland are forgiven for the sweet kernel of pure adventure
that is there.

As for adventure,— that is relative. Where little happens and the
gamut of expression is narrow life is still full of joy and sorrow.
You're stirred by simple happenings in a quiet world.

The killer-whales that early in September played in the shoal
water of our cove not thirty feet from land, rolled their huge, shining
bodies into view, plunged, raced where we still could follow their
gleaming, white patch under water, — there's a thrill !

The battles that occurred that month between huge fish out in
the bay, their terrible, mysterious, black arms that beat the water
with a sound like cannon, the plunge into the depths of the poor,
frantic, wounded whale, and his return again for air; again the
thunder sound and flying foam and spray as the dread black arm is
beating on the sea; then calm. You shudder at that huge death.
That was a drama for Fox Islanders.

And later the poor magpie's death. Real tears were shed from a
poor boy's half-broken heart.

Two strangers come these days and stop with Olson. They're on
the search of that small craft that we saw driving seaward in a tempest.

THE DAY'S WORK

WINTER

There is mystery ! Was she adrift unmanned, broke from her moor-
ings, or was there life aboard as we had thought? In that case she'd
been stolen, and who were the men and where? Wrecked safely on
some island, drowned, or driven out to sea? No man shall ever know.

A porcupine is captured wandering near our house. We build
for him a cozy home — he doesn't like it much but still he should
We care for him day after day, he twines himself, about our hearts.
Then at last one day when we'd pastured him in freedom out hi the
new fallen snow, trusting his tracks to lead us to him, the goats cut
in and spoiled the trail and he was lost to us.

Olson has gone to Seward: days of waiting, days of waiting!
How many tunes do we travel down the cove to the point from whence
Game's Head is seen, going in hope, returning gloomily.

The goats beset us yearning for their missing master. Billy, that
maddening beast, eats up one corner of our broom. I throw a heavy
armful of kindling wood into his face — and he just sneezes. But
Rockwell plays with the goats as if they're human, or rather, as if
he were goat. They half believe it, he has told me, — and, Rockwell,
so do I.

Sunday, November third.

To-day was gloriously bright and clear with a strong northwest
wind. The mountains are covered with snow, beautiful beyond de-
scription. I painted in- and out-of-doors continuously all the day ex-
cept when Rockwell and I plied the saw. It is no little thing to have
one's work on a day like this out under such a blue sky, by the foaming
green sea and the fairy mountains.

Three days go by. It rains and hails and snows, and then is quiet.
Over the dead, still air comes the roar of pounding seas. Immense
and white they pile on the black cliffs of Caine's Head, the wash of a
storm at sea. Still over the heaving, glassy water we look in vain for

WILDERNESS

Olson. Dark days, and the short hours are long with waiting. How
many times we traveled down the cove to look toward Seward, how
many score of times we peered through the little panes of our west
window never to find the thing we sought for.

I've loaded my arms with firewood from the pile. I turn my head
and there in our cove before my very eyes at last is Olson ! This is
November sixth,— nine days away!

" The war is over, " cried Olson as he landed. By all that's holy
in life may the world have found through its mad war at least some
fragrance of the peace and freedom that we discovered growing like a
flower, wild on the borders of the wilderness. . . .

Long into night I read the mail, count sweaters, caps, and woolen
stockings, all that the mail has brought. It is late, Rockwell is asleep,
the room is cold, it snows out-of-doors. . . . And now instead of
bed I'll stir the fire and begin my work.

Thursday, November seventh.

A true winter's day with the snow deep on the ground and the
profound and characteristic winter silence of the out-of-doors to be
sensed even in this ever silent place. At earliest daylight began a
heavy thunderstorm with lightning all about and a downpour of hail.
It occurred intermittently throughout the morning. ... I did the
washing, using Olson's washboard and getting the clothes nearly
white.

Olson is full of amusing gossip. To the curious in Seward who

asked him why I chose to be in this God-forsaken spot he replied :

1 You damn fools, you don't understand an artist at all. Do you

suppose Shakespeare wrote his plays with a silly crowd of men and

women hanging around him? No, sir, an artist has to be left alone."

" Well, what does he paint? "

That's his business. Sometimes I see he has a mountain there

MEAL TIME

WINTER

on a picture, and next time I see it's been changed to a lake or some-
thing else."

One can imagine Olson with his questioners. The thing he most
wants, his ambition, one might say, is to make people sit up and take
notice of Fox Island, his homestead. It is in fact one reason why he
brought us here to live. Thanks to its amateur detective, Seward
had rejoiced for a short tune in rumors of a German spy on Fox Island.
I told Olson that the authorities might still come and remove me. He
flared up, " I'd like to see them try it! We could take to the moun-
tains with guns, and more than one of them would never try the thing
again. " And then he went on to tell me how in Idaho he had tracked
for days and weeks a notorious gang of outlaws and horse-thieves
and at last run them to earth, — one of his most thrilling and, I believe,
absolutely true stories of his adventures.

At this moment a steamer is blowing in the bay, navigating by the
echo from the mountain faces. She is near to us now but hidden
by the snowstorm.

Rockwell has begun to write the story of a long, waking dream of
his. It's a sweet idea and reads most amusingly in his own queer
spelling. Now, though it is already late, I must draw a while longer
and then, after bathing in the bread pan, sit up in bed and read a
chapter of the life of Blake.

Friday, November eighth.

It is so late that I half expect to see the dawn begin. I have been
working on a drawing of Rockwell and his father— and it looks ever

so fine.

Whew! just at this moment the wind has swept down upon our
cabin and blown the roof in as far as it would with great creaking
yield,— and then passed on sucking it out in its wake to such a spread
that a board that lay across overhead like a collar-beam has fallen

WILDERNESS

with a crash and clatter,— and Rockwell sleeps on! The wind does
blow to-night, and it doesn't stop outside the walls of the cabin
either. My lamp flutters annoyingly. But ah! the room is comfort-
able and warm.

This morning, it being at first wondrously fair, Rockwell and I set
out for a boat ride. But what with the fussing of installing our motor
and the launching of our cumbersome boat the wind was given time
to rise and spoil the day for us. But we went out into the bay and
played in the waves to see what the north wind could do. The chop
was devilish, short and deep; the boat bridged from one crest to
another with, it seemed, a clear tunnel underneath, — and then
running up onto a wave mountain she would jump off its dizzy peak
landing with a splash in the valley beyond and dousing us well with
water. In a calmer spot I stopped the engine and sketched our island ;
after which we towed home. The rest of the day we worked on the
motor — first to find out why she wouldn't run, then, having found
and fixed that, to put other parts in still better order, and then, by far
the longest time and still to continue to-morrow, to mend what in the
course of our fixing we had broken.

Rockwell's in bed, asleep, dreaming of the little, wild night-
ingale that sang of freedom to that poor, unhappy Chinese Em-
peror ; while far from here in streets and towns the tin nightingale
of law-made liberty charms the world. And it's now my read-
ing time, my time for bread and jam and a soft-cushioned
back.

The days run by, true winter days, snow, cold, and wind, — what
wind ! It is terrifying when from our mountain tops those fierce blasts
sweep upon us roaring as they come ; flying twigs and ice beat on the
roof, the boards creak and groan under the wind's weight, the lamp
flutters, moss is driven in and falls upon my work-table, the canvas
over our bed flaps,— and then in a moment the wind is gone and the

DAY'S END

WINTER

world is still again save for the distant wash of the waves and the far
off forest roar.

Olson is full of treats. His latest was in pleasant violation of the
law. From a bottle of pale liquid half filled with raisins he poured
me a drink, mixing it with an equal amount of ginger ale and a dash
of sugar. It tasted pretty good, quite thrilling in fact.

" What is it? " I asked.

" Pure alcohol, " he said, smacking his lips.

Olson then launched forth on confidential advice, "from one
trapper to another, " on how to trap men, — in my case rich patrons.
He has my need of them quite upon his mind.

Olson's eggs, by the way, taste good enough. (They gave him
hi Seward twenty-four dozen bad eggs to bring out for the foxes.)
We have eaten a dozen. To-day I cracked seventeen to find six for
dinner. Onion omelette is the fashion to cook them in. Rockwell
pronounces them delicious and — well — so do I.

Hard, hard at work, little play, not too much sleep. The wind
blows ceaselessly. Rockwell is forever good, — industrious, kind, and
happy. He reads now quite freely from any book. Drawing has be-
come a natural and regular occupation for him, almost a recreation — for
he can draw in both a serious and a humorous vein. At this moment
he's waiting in bed for some music and another Andersen fairy tale.

Another day has gone and a new morning is hours on its way.
Out in the moonlit night strained, tired eyes open wide and are made
clear again, cramped knees must dance in the crisp air, the curved
spine bends backward as the upstretched arms describe that superb
embracing gesture of the good-night yawn. November the thirteenth !
how time sweeps by. And I look over the black water that we soon
must cross again to Seward. The wind bursts around the cabin
corner. I shiver and — go to bed.

CHAPTER V

WAITING

Thursday, November fourteenth.

E'RE ready to go to Seward the moment the weather
moderates — which may be not for two weeks or
two months. I've packed blankets and several
days' food in a great knapsack so that if we're driven
to land somewhere we'll not perish of hunger. And
this trip while it may be carried out speedily may on the other hand
strand us days without number in Seward and cost three or four
times that many dollars.

The wind is still in the North, the days are wonderfully beautiful,
and the nights no less. This very night Rockwell and I skated for the
third time, Ah, but it was glorious on the lake, the moon high above
us hi a cloudless sky, the snow and ice on the mountain sides glisten-
ing and the spruces black. We skated together hand in hand like
sweethearts; going far to one end of the lake in the teeth of the wind
and returning before it like full-rigged ships. And Rockwell whose
second skate to-day this was improves every minute.

WAITING

I've cut Rockwell's hair, four months' growth. He has had the
appearance of a boy of the Middle Ages with his hair cut to a line
above his eyes. Now he's truly a handsome fellow— and such a man
under the hardships of this cold place and rough life that I'm very
proud of him.

Saturday, November sixteenth.

Still it blows, yesterday and to-day, cold, clear, and blue, — and
the moon these nights stands straight above us and stays till
dawn, setting far hi the north. It is really cold. Olson is quite
miserable and wonders how we can keep at our wood cutting and
skating. But I think I shall never live in such cold again as in
that first winter on Monhegan in my unfinished house when on
cold days the water pails four feet from the stove froze over be-
tween the times I used them, and my beans at soak froze one
night on the lighted stove. We love this weather here. While
the cabin is drafty I pile on fuel remorselessly, and that's a real
delight after having all my life had truly to count the pieces of
coal and wood. The ice on the pond is six inches thick, part of it
clear black that one can see the bottom through. This morning
Rockwell changed to heavy underwear. He complains always of
the heat, day and night.

The days go on about as usual varied only by an occasional
weekly or monthly chore and success or failure in my painting.
This morning with Olson's help I brought my boat up onto the land
above the beach. The boat is an extremely heavily built eighteen-
foot dory with a heavy keel; and yet the wind carried it four feet
last night and, if it had not been secured, might have blown it
down into the water where the waves would soon have wrecked
it. This night I shall not read in bed; it's quite too far away from
the stove.

WILDERNESS

Sunday, November seventeenth.

We jumped from bed in a hurry this morning believing that the
apparent stillness boded a calm day and a fit one for the Seward trip.
But the sea beyond our cove was running swiftly and within two
hours there was a gale of wind and some snow. Cold it was and
dark. We'd hardly put the lamp out after breakfast, before we
lighted it again for late dinner. Still in that short daylight I painted
and Rockwell skated and painted, and we both cut a lot of wood.
I've spent the evening writing, trying an article for " The Modern
School." We turned my boat over and secured it to the ground
with ropes just in tune to escape the fall of snow to-night that
lies deep on the ground. The moon is up and through the clouds there
comes a general illumination like daylight.

Monday, November eighteenth.

To-day a storm from the southeast. It blows like fury. Break-
fast by lamplight, work until dark, then dinner — hi the neighborhood
of three o'clock or maybe four — more work, and a nap, for I felt ex-
hausted. Rockwell goes to bed and is read to, I work a while longer,
then a light supper for which Rockwell gets up again, then — the
dishes washed and R. again hi bed — a call on Olson for three quarters
of an hour, leaving there at ten, to work again till some wild hour.
What a strangely arranged day! I'm determined to have a clock.
But now it will be seen that no more time must be spent this night
upon this diary. Amen.

Tuesday, November nineteenth.

A dreary, dreary, a weary day. But I've worked or somehow been
ceaselessly busy and now I'm about ready for my nightcap of reading
and bed. Four canvases stretched and primed stand to my credit
and that alone is one day's work hi effort and conquered repugnance.

I WAVT TO EO cte WC#T,

D ASWT * AIM/US. HWVU

SAT UP **•

M. 1 MO MX MTfltt *

il/ rug WOODS,

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WILDCATS,

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05AMT AVHAV

ROCKWELL'S DREAM

WAITING

What a tedious work. My Christmas letters are written, nearly all
of them. And as Christmas draws near it seems more and more
impossible without home and the children. It will be a huge make-
believe for one of our family here !

There's a big storm at sea from the look of the water and the sound
of the wind. And the rain falls drearily and on the roof it rattles.
From the tall trees the great drops fall like stones; they beat to pieces,
little by little, the paper roof, and now when the ram is hardest we
hear the drip, drip of the water on the floor. But we are comfortable-
so what of it all.

I read "Big Glaus and Little Glaus " to Rockwell to-night. That's
a great story and we roared over it. Rockwell doesn't like the stories
about kings and queens, he says, " They're always marrying and that
kind of stuff." Just the same Rockwell himself has his life and
marriage pretty closely planned, — the journey from the East alone,
the wife to be found at Seattle to save her carfare — and yet not put
off as far as Alaska, for there they don't look nice enough, — and then
life hi Alaska to the end of his days. And I'm to be along if I'm not
dead, — as I probably shall be, he says.

I have just finished the life of Blake and am now reading Blake's
prose catalogue, etc., and a book of Indian essays of Coomeraswamy.
The intense and illuminating fervor of Blake ! I have just read this :
" The human mind cannot go beyond the gift of God, the Holy Ghost.
To suppose that Art can go beyond the finest specimens of Art that
are now in the world is not knowing what Art is; it is being blind to
the gifts of the Spirit." Here in the supreme simplicity of life amid
these mountains the spirit laughs at man's concern with the form of
Art, with new expression because the old is outworn! It is man's
own poverty of vision yielding him nothing, so that to save himself
he must trick out in new garb the old, old commonplaces, or exalt to
be material for art the hitherto discarded trivialities of the mind.

WILDERNESS

Wednesday, November twentieth.

To-morrow we hope to get off — although it still storms. There's a
terrific sea running but even such a sea would trouble us less than the
chop of the north wind. The wind above all else is to be feared here.

I painted little— it was so dark. Somehow on these short days it
is difficult to accomplish much. Certain things have to be done by
daylight: the chopping of wood, carrying of water from a hundred
yards away, lamp filling, and some cooking. I made myself a lot of
envelopes to-day and second-coated the canvases of yesterday's
stretching. And now it is bedtime for to-morrow we rise early.
Oh! the porcupine returned to-day and was discovered feeding
calmly near the cabin. He showed no alarm at Rockwell's approach,
and, when finally after some hours of undisturbed nibbling and
napping Rockwell carried him home by his tail and set him down a
little distance from his old cage, he ran straight there and interned
himself.

Friday, November twenty-second.

Both yesterday and to-day are to be recorded. The porcupine
is dead I And yesterday he endeared himself so to us, playing about
in the house with the utmost content. The cause of his death we
cannot know — unless it was our kindness. Rockwell with Olson's
leather mittens on did carry him about a good deal. Of course they
are creatures nocturnal and we had planned to let him have his regu-
lar hours for exercise and feeding, Rockwell delighting in the plan
that he should stay with him in the woods at night, which I was cer-
tainly going to let him try. But it's over,— and Pet No. 2 has gone to
his happy hunting grounds.

It storms, yesterday violently with such wind and rain as seemed
incredible. The thin paper roof made the noise deafening so that I
could not sleep ; and the surf beat and the forest roared ; it was a wild

THE CABIN WINDOW

WAITING

night. To-day is better though it pours every half hour. When,
when shall we get to Seward ! And here before me are displayed all
the pretty Christmas presents I have made and that Rockwell has
made. Here we sit, these dark short days, working together at the
same table just like two professional craftsmen. On these days I
cannot paint,— and Olson calls upon us more than he should. Still,
we let him sit here in silence and he is wise enough to be quite con-
tent. Now it is late. The stove is out and I must go to bed. Two
meals only to-day, — another is due me. Oh ! I made myself a beauti-
ful die for note paper yesterday and printed it on my envelopes
to-day.

Saturday, November twenty-third.

It dawned calm with rain hanging in the air. We hurried with our
breakfast in the hope that we should get off; but within an hour
at the turn of the tide the northwest wind whipped down from the
mountains and the rain fell in torrents. And now at a late hour of the
night it still rains although the wind has fallen. We felled a tree to-
day and partly cut it up. Although it was dismally dark all the tune
I managed to paint a little. And I wrote much and drew in black and
white. Rockwell has been industrious as usual, drawing at my side.
He told me an amusing anecdote of little Kathleen that is worthy to
go down here. When in play she wants to change her doll's name
she sends for the pretend doctor, again herself, and he operates on
the doll. Cutting a hole in her stomach he stuffs into it a little piece
of paper on which he has written the new name. And so the name is
changed.

Tried some cottonseed oil of Olson's to-day that was too bad.
A year or two ago he was given a case of spoiled mayonnaise dressing
for fox food. Olson saved the oil which had separated from the rest
of it. I made dough for doughnuts while I heated the oil to fry our-

WILDERNESS

selves that great treat. Then arose a pinching, rancid odor that
almost made me ill but which Rockwell called delicious. However I
baked the doughnuts. Still, the oil unheated seemed not bad.

Sunday, November twenty-fourth.

Olson declares this day to be Sunday and in honor of the day he
gave me a cup of milk for junket. And in honor of the day, whatever
it is, I worked so hard that now I'm tired out. The day began with
snow and continued with it. It blustered and blew much as a day in
March and the bay looked wild. And now to-night it is clear and
starlight. Will the north wind begin to blow again to-morrow? The
chances are that it will and Seward and the sending of my mail will
be as far away as ever. I painted with some success for the snow
makes the cabin lighter. Really my picture looks well. Eight
canvases are far along so that I'm proud of them. We cut wood to-
day of course; it would be great fun if only we'd more minutes of
daylight to spare. Steamer must be due in Seward now. We've seen
none for two weeks or longer.

Monday, November twenty-fifth.

It rages from the northeast ! The bay is a wild expanse of breakers.
They bear into our cove and thunder on the beach. A mad day and a
wild night. And Seward is as far off as ever ! It is now my hope that
a steamer will go to Seward before me. Olson finds by his diary that
none has been seen to go there for two weeks. I began two new
pictures to-day trying for the first time to paint after dark. My lamp
is so inadequate in this dark interior— it burns only a three-quarter
inch wick— that I can work only in black and white. But I've
laid in the whole picture in that way. Rockwell spends several hours
a day out-of-doors exploring the woods, searching out porcupine trails
and caves. It is weeks since I have stopped my work even for a walk.

GO TO BED

WAITING

In this " out-of-doors life " I see little of out-of-doors. It's a blessing
to me to have to saw wood every day.

I finished Coomeraswamy's "Indian Essays" to-day, an illuminat-
ing and inspiring book. Coomeraswamy defines mysticism as a belief
in the unity of life. The creed of an artist concerns us only when we
mean by it the tendency of his spirit. (How hard it is to speak of these
intangible things and not use words loosely and without exact mean-
ing.) I think that whatever of the mystic is in a man is essentially
inseparable from him ; it is his by the grace of God. After all, the quali-
ties by which all of us become known are those of which we are our-
selves least conscious. The best of me is what is quite impulsive ; and,
looking at myself for a moment with a critic's eye, the forms that occur
in my art, the gestures, the spirit of the whole of it is hi fact nothing
but an exact pictorial record of my unconscious living idealism.

Tuesday, November twenty-sixth.

After a terribly stormy and cold night the day was fair with the wind
comfortably settled hi the north as if he meant to stay there. Only
at night has it been calm. To-night again is so and if I had not Rock-
well on my hands to make me timid I'd go at night to Seward. Olson
was a real Santa Claus to-day. First he gave us Schmier Kase, then a
good salt salmon — two years old which he said we'd "better try ):
and to-night a lot of butter churned by him from goat's milk. It looks
like good butter and, with the added coloring matter, more palatable
than the natural white butter of the goat. We felled two trees to-day
— fairly small ones. We consume a vast amount of wood with our all-
night fire. Well— to-morrow, let us say again, we'll be off to Seward.

Wednesday, November twenty-seventh.

To-day, if we had known how the weather would turn, we should
have started. It was lovely, cold but fair with the wind in the south-

WILDERNESS

west. It had in the morning all appearances of a heavy blow and we
failed to get in shape to take advantage of its canning as the afternoon
advanced. At any rate I have a little picture of it with the soft haze of
the day and the loose clouds. I painted besides on the large canvas of
Superman begun a few days ago. Olson lent me his " grub-box " to
use, a wooden box of small grocery size with a cover fastened with a
strap and buckle. Such a box is part of the outfit of every man on the
Yukon. My emergency grub is now in it, my letters, Christmas
presents, and all that's bound for Seward. Rockwell took Squirlie out
for an airing to-day, wrapping him with tender care in a sweater.
They went for a long way into the woods like good companions. Then
Rockwell drew a portrait of his muffled pet which is destined for
Clara's Christmas.

Thursday, November twenty-eighth.

This continual waiting is getting upon my nerves. Most of to-day
I spent tinkering with the engine. It goes now — in a water barrel.
The trouble with the best of these little motors is that the moment
they get wet they stop, and they are attached at such an exposed place,
on the stern, that they will get wet if there's much of a sea. Then
you're in a bad fix for it's impossible to make any headway rowing
with the engine — or rather the propeller — dragging. Most of the
engines are hung right on the stern and can be readily detached and
drawn into the boat. But mine fits into a sort of pocket built in the
stem and is difficult even on land to lift out. It weighs decidedly over
a hundred pounds. So I don't relish getting caught with such an
equipment. I must have mentioned, by the way, that the engine was
" thrown in " with the boat as of no value.

So there's the day gone. To-night we go to bed early and
if it is calm just before daylight in the morning we shall start
at once.

vVt4--'\><£v V

DRIFTWOOD

WAITING

Friday, November twenty-ninth.

Last night a terrific storm from the east. A few blasts struck the
house with such force that it seemed our thin roof could not stand it.
Of course it is really quite strong enough but the noise of those sudden
squalls bearing along snow and ice from the tree tops is simply ap-
palling. In the morning it became milder but continued to rain and
snow and for most of the day to blow heavily from the eastward. In
the afternoon to my despair a steamer entered for Seward; she'll
doubtless leave at daylight. There goes one of my chances to get my
Christmas mail off.

I painted splendidly to-day and am in the seventh heaven over it,
-which takes away some of my gloom at never reaching Seward.
A long call from Olson to-night. He sits here patiently and silently
while I draw. It snows steadily. What will to-morrow bring?

Francis Galton, the inquirer into human faculty, would have been
charmed at Rockwell's casual mention of the colors of proper names.
They do apparently assume definite colors that seem to him appro-
priate and characteristic beyond question. Clara, too, sees names as
colors. Father is blue, Mother is a darker blue. The breadth of
vowel sound apparently, judging from this and other examples he
gave me, lowers the tone of color. Kathleen is a light yellow, very
light. Now for a bite to eat, for I've had but two meals — and then to
bed.

101

CHAPTER VI
EXCURSION

Thursday, December fifth.

J^^j^ OVEMBER thirtieth we arose before daylight. It was

Jk m a mild, still morning and the melting snow dripped

t I • from the trees. Without breakfast we set about at

^^/ & once to carry our things over to the boat. Olson was

aroused and turned out to help. There's always much

to be carried on a trip to Seward ; gasoline, oil, tools, my pack bag —

containing clothes, heavy blankets, and spare boots, — and the grub

box Olson had given me packed with mail, books, grub, and the flute.

The engine was in good order and started promptly. So away we

went out over the bay just as the day brightened.

It was calm and beautiful. The sun from below the horizon shot
shafts of light up into the clouds, gray became pink, and pink grew
into gold until at last after an hour or more the sun's rays lighted up
the mountain peaks, and we knew that he had risen. It continued
calm and mild all the way, but nevertheless I caught myself singing

102

EXCURSION

"Erlkonig," such is my anxiety at carrying Rockwell with me.
Rockwell enjoyed the trip wrapped up in a sheepskin coat of Olson's.
We stopped at a fishing camp for a moment's chat from the water. The
man living there had just caught a good sized-wolverine. We declined
breakfast and hurried on.

In Seward we stored our things in Olson's cabin, a little place
about eight feet square, and started for the hotel. One of our friends
met us with a shout, " Well, you've had good sense to stay away so
long. "

Influenza, I then learned, had raged in Seward, there having been
over 350 cases ; and smallpox had made a start. But the deaths had
been few and it was now well in hand. However, I shunned the hotel.
A little cottage was generously put at our disposal and we were soon
comfortably settled there with our mail from home spread before us.
I left everything of mine at the hotel untouched and we continued to
wear our old clothes throughout the stay. At midnight I went with
Otto Boehm to pull the dory up above the tide and overturn her, and
then continued letter writing until three-thirty A.M.

December first and every day of our stay at Seward was calm and
fair. We kept house in our cottage, I continually busy writing and
doing up Christmas presents, for a steamer had entered on the thir-
tieth and was due to leave Sunday night, the first. The people of
Seward are friendly without being the slightest bit inquisitive,
and they are extremely broad-minded for all that their country
is remote from the greater world. I don't believe that provincial-
ism is an inevitable evil of far-off communities. The Alaskan
is alert, enterprising, adventurous. Men stand on their own feet
—and why not? The confusing intricacy of modern society is
here lacking. The men's own hands take the pure gold from the
rocks; no one is another's master. It's a great land— the best
by far I have ever known.

103

WILDERNESS

What a telltale of reaction from our lonely island life is this
roseate vision of thP little city of the far northwest! We came in
time to see Seward duite differently and, with confidence in Alaska,
to believe it to be ir> no waY a typical and true Alaskan town. The
" New York of the pacific," as it is gloriously acclaimed in the litera-
ture of its Chamber °f Commerce, numbers its citizens perhaps at

half a thousand tne tenacious remnant of the many more who

years ago trusted our government to fulfill its promises to really build
and operate a railroa(* into the interior. One's indignation fires at
the recital of the mPn °f Seward's wrongs, — until you recollect that
Seward was built for speculation, not for industry, and that by the
chance turn of the ^heel many have merely reaped loss instead of
profit. There are no resources at that spot to be developed and there
is consequently no industry.

Seward is planne'd for growth and equipped for commerce. Wide
avenues and numbef e(* blocks adorn the town-site maps where to the
naked eye the land'£ a wilderness of stumps and briars. The center
of the built-up portic)n of the town, one street of two blocks' length, is
modern with electrie lights and concrete pavements. The stores are
wonderfully good; there are two banks and several small hotels, a
baker from Ward's bakery in New York and a French barber from
the Hotel Buckingh£m- There's a good grammar school, a hospital,
and churches of all sorts. There is no public library; apparently one
isn't badly missed. Seward's a tradesmen's town and tradesmen's
views prevail, — nariow reactionary thought on modern issues and a
trembling concern a* the menace of organized labor. A strike of the
three newsboys of tfce Seward paper plunged the poor fool its printer
into frantic fear of an *• W. W. plot. But even Seward smiled at the
little man's terror. The worst of Seward is itself; the best is the
strong men that b;7 chance are there or that pass through from
the great Alaska.

104

THE WHITTLER

EXCURSION

December second was a day for shopping. I bought all manner of
Christmas things, things for the tree, things to eat, little presents for
Olson — but nothing for Rockwell. He and I must do without presents
this Christmas. Then more letters were written. A wood block that
I had cut proved, on my seeing a proof of it, to be absolutely worthless.

December third I had still so much mail and business to attend to
that I stayed over another day. Set a door frame for Brownell and
spent that evening at his house. The postmaster came too, fine
fellow, and we'd a great evening taking turns singing songs — and the
P. M. did mighty well with " School-master Mishter O'Toole. " The
day I'd spent writing and gossiping about town.

I heard then a story about Olson that's worth while. He was once
telling a crowd of men about the reindeer to the northward. Among
his listeners was a Jew who was annoyed with his " hectoring. "
At last this joker asked: " Olson, if you bred a reindeer to a Swede
what would you get? " " You'd get a Jew, " replied Olson. The Jew,
who still lives in Seward, has not bothered Olson since. The old man
has a rare reputation for his honesty and truth and all round sterling
qualities.

It's truly a satisfaction to be in a country where men are alert
enough to take no offense at alertness, where enterprise is so common
a virtue that it arouses no suspicion, and where it is the rule to mind
your own business.

December fourth we set about to leave for Fox Island. It took
two hours to wind up our final business in town and embark. Brown-
ell helped with the boat. Of course the engine balked for fifteen
minutes and then (not " of course ") went beautifully. After travel-
ing a quarter of a mile I learned that Rockwell had left our clock
standing in the snow by Olson's cabin. So for that we went back.
Brownell saw us and brought it.

The trip was swift and smooth. At Caine's Head it began to snow,

107

WILDERNESS

obscuring Fox Island, but I knew the course. In mid-channel the
engine stopped. After ten minutes' tinkering it resumed going and
went beautifully till we rounded the head of our cove. Then it sput-
tered and I had continually to crank it. However, it carried us to
thirty or forty feet of the shore when it breathed its last, thanks to
the snow that had by now thoroughly wet the engine and ourselves.
We unloaded and with great labor hauled up the dory and turned her
over. That night I was exhausted and went straight to bed, leaving
Rockwell at his drawing. So now we're on Fox Island again.

1 08

CHAPTER VII

HOME

Thursday, December fifth (Continued).

ILD, rainy, snowy, sleepy— this first day back at home.
I've done little work and dared look at but one
picture — that of Superman — and it appears truly mag-
nificent. The sky of it is luminous as with north-
ern lights, and the figure lives. After all it is Life
which man sees and which he tries to hold and in his Art to recreate.
To that end he bends every resource straining at what limits him.
If he could only be free, free to rise beyond the limits of expression
into being! at his prophetic vision of man's destiny assuming himself
the lineaments of it, in stature grown gigantic, rearing upwards be-
yond the narrow clouds of earth into the unmeasured space of night,
his countenance glowing, his arms outstretched in an embrace of
wider worlds! This is the spirit and the gesture of Superman.
-So I'm not unhappy. Now work begins again. For weeks there'll
be no mail in Seward and for more weeks none here.

109

WILDERNESS

Friday, December sixth.

I'm reading a little book on Diirer. What a splendid civilization
that was hi the Middle Ages, with all its faults. To men with my
interests can anything be more conclusive proof of the superiority of
that age to this than the position of the artist and the scholar hi the
community? Let me quote from Biker's diary. (Antwerp, a banquet
at the burgomaster's hall.)

"All their service was of silver, and they had other splendid ornaments and
very costly meats. All their wives were there also. And as I was being led to
the table the company stood on both sides as if they were leading some great
lord. And there were among them men of very high position, who all treated
me with respectful bows, and promised to do everything in their power agreea-
ble to me that they knew of. And as I was sitting there in such grandeur,
Adrian Horebouts, the syndic of Antwerp, came with two servants and presented
me with four cans of wine in the name of the Town Councillors of Antwerp, and
they had bid him say that they wish thereby to show their respect for me and
assure me of their good will. Wherefore I returned my humble thanks — etc.
After that came Master Peeter, the town carpenter, and presented me with two
cans of wine, with the offer of his willing services. So when we had spent a
long and merry time together till late at night, they accompanied us home with
lanterns in great honor."

Oh land of porcelain bath-tubs ! A man has only to leave all
that by which we to-day estimate culture to realize that all of his
own civilization goes with him right to the back woods, and lives
there with him refined and undiminished by the hardships there.

Civilization is not measured by the poverty or the wealth of the
few or of the millions, nor by monarchy, republicanism, or even Free-
dom, nor by whether we work with hands or levers, — but by the final
fruit of all of these, that imperishable record of the human spirit, Art.
The obituary of to-day in America has surely now been written in the
poor workshop of some struggling, unknown man. That is all that
the future will know of us.

All records for winds are broken by what rages to-night. From

"GET UP!"

HOME

the northwest it piles into our cove. The windows are coated with
salt, and tons of flying water sail in clouds out of the bay hiding the
mountains from the base to half their height. Our rafters bend be-
neath the blast; ice — from we know not where — falls upon us with a
thundering noise. The canvases suspended aloft sway and flap, and
from end to end of the cabin the breeze roves at will. It's so ridicu-
lously bad and noisy and cold that Rockwell and I just laugh. But
the wood is plentiful for we cut some more to-day.

Last night at bedtime the wind had risen. At some midnight hour
the stove went out for I awoke at two and found the cold all about us
and the wind hard at it. So with a generous use of kerosene the fire
was made to burn again and I returned to a good night's rest. Some-
how one doesn't mind short exposures to the cold. Many a day I
have stood naked out in the wind and then become at once glow-
ing warm again in the hot cabin. Baked bread to-day and it turned
out very well. Painted, shivered, wrote, and to-night shall try to
design a picture of the " Weird of the Gods. " But at this moment
our supper is ready and two hungry, cold mortals cannot be kept from
their corn mush.

Saturday, December seventh.

Late ! Now that we have a clock— I stole one in Seward— we live
by system, our hours are regular. The clock I set by the tide, marking
the rise of the water hi the new-fallen snow. We rise at 7.30. It is
then not yet sunrise but fairly light. Breakfast is soon cooked and
eaten. To start the blood going hard for a good day's work we spring
out-of-doors and chop and split and saw in the glorious, icy north-
wind. Then painting begins. I have scared Olson away— poor soul—
but I make it up by calling on him just at dark when my painting hours

are over.

Now it's eleven at night and I've still my bit to read. Whew, but

WILDERNESS

it's cold to-night and the wind is rising to a gale. And last night! —
what a bitter one. I got up four times to feed the ravenous fire. And
even so the water pails froze. We cannot afford to let it freeze much
in the cabin for our stores are all exposed. What if the Christmas
cider should freeze and burst! I painted out of doors to-day— in
sneakers ! and stood it just about as long as one would imagine. To
love the cold is a sign of youth — and we do love it, the Awakener.

Sunday, December eighth.

Log cabins stuffed with moss should be wonderful in the tropics.
I'm about frozen. On this work table I must weight my papers down
to keep them from flying about the room. And the wind is icy; it is
bitterly, bitterly cold. Olson says we need expect no colder weather
than this all whiter. Of course we don't really mind it. The stove is
red hot and we may go as close to it as we please, and the bed is warm
— except towards morning. At night I move my jugs of yeast and
cider toward the stove, fill the " air-tight " to the top, pile blankets
and wrappers upon the bed, and sleep happily.

The gale still rages, fortunately not with its utmost fury. This
morning Rockwell and I hurried through our chores and then climbed
to the low ridge of the island. The snow in the woods is crusted and
bore us up well so that we traveled with ease and soon reached the
crest. Ah, there it was glorious; such blue and gold and rose! We
looked down upon the spit and saw the sea piling upon it; we looked
seaward and saw the snow blown from the land, the spray and the
mist rising in clouds toward the sun, — and the sun, the beautiful sun
shone on us. We took a number of pictures and then with numbed
fingers and toes raced down the slope playing man-pursued-by-a-bear.
Rockwell was wonderful to look at with his cheeks so red and clear.
He loved our little excursion.

And for the rest of the day we've worked. I stretched and coated

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three large canvases, hateful job ! painted, sawed wood, felled a tree—
which the wind carried over onto another so that there it hangs neither
up nor down,— and that's about all. It's again eleven and time for
bed. The night is beautiful even if it is terrible; and the young
moon is near setting.

Monday, December ninth.

It blows worse than ever, and it is colder. All day the blue sky
has been hidden in clouds of vapor and flying spray. The bay seethes
and smokes and huge breakers race across it. It is truly bitter weather.
Olson to-night ventured the prophecy that this was about the cul-
mination of whiter — but I know Olson by now. I cut another tree this
morning to release the one of yesterday and both fell with a magni-
ficent crash. Then we went to work with the cross-cut saw and
stocked our day's wood.

Olson called this afternoon and related his recollection of the
early days of Nome.

" A certain man, " he began, " deserted from a whaler that
stopped for water on the north coast of Alaska. He'd been shang-
haied in San Francisco and was a tailor by trade. He made his way
down the coast with the occasional help of the esquimaux. At last
he came to Nome. The men were gone from the native village but
a woman took him in. She was named English Mary. Now she had
heard of the gold finds on the Yukon and she asked the man if he was
a miner. He answered, * Yes. ' ' You come with me, ' she said, and
led him to a certain creek and showed him the shining nuggets lying
thick upon the bottom. But the tailor really knew nothing about
gold and let it lie. He continued down the coast and was at last
carried to St. Michael. There he met a missionary and a young
fellow who had come to Alaska with a party of prospectors. With
those two he returned in a boat to Nome. You'll hear different
stories, to be sure, of how they got there but this is the right one, for

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I've seen the boat they came in lying there off the beach. Well, they
came and saw the gold but none of them could say for certain what it
was. So one of them went off to get a man from the party of pros-
pectors with whom the young fellow had come to Alaska. At last
they got him there and he proved that it was sure enough gold.
They staked their claims and began to work them. But word of gold
travels fast and already others began to come. The miner of that
first party drew up mining laws for the country and these were en-
forced. I was up on the Yukon when I heard of the first find at Nome.
I went down and arrived there in the fall, a little more than a year
after the strike. By that time there was quite a number there.

" Some man had drawn up a plan of a town and was selling lots.
I bought one on the northwest corner of the block. It was on the
tundra. (Tundra is vegetation covered ice, soggy to a foot's depth.)
There was a tent on my lot and some wood, so I bought those too.
But shortly after when I came home one day from prospecting I found
that both the tent and the wood had been stolen. I bought lumber
for the frame of a new tent. It cost me thirty dollars ; that is, fifty
cents a foot. By that time all kinds of people were pouring into Nome.
They were taking out gold on the creek, those that had claims, at the
rate of $5000 in a couple of hours. It was so heavy in the sand you
couldn't handle a pan-full.

" Someone cut into my tent and cleaned me out — but I had nothing
much besides a jack-knife. I borrowed ten dollars and went to
work at a dollar an hour. A couple of rascals had come there, a judge
and a lawyer ; and they began to get busy swindling everybody out of
their titles to claims. It was said openly that if you saw anyone's
claim * jump it, ' and the lawyers would make more money for you
than you could get out in gold. There was no use in a man without
money trying to hold a claim. And the crowd that was there ! Gam-
blers, sharps, actors, — men and women of every kind — and they did
act so foolish! — all out of their heads over the gold. The brothels
were running wide open and robberies occurred in the town by day-
light. Every man slept with his gun beside him and if he shot it was
to kill. The robbers chloroformed men as they slept in their tents.

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There were thousands of people then and you could look out on the
beach and see them swarming like flies. Everything was overturned
for gold,— the entire beach for ten miles both ways from Nome was
shoveled off into the sea. They dug under the Indian village till the
houses fell in, and even under the graveyard. "

And so Olson's story continues. A story of his life would really be
— as an old pioneer in Seward told me — a history of Alaska. Because
Olson has never succeeded he has been everywhere and tried every-
thing. I have not done him justice in my abridgment of his Nome
story. His recollections are so intimate. He remembers the words
spoken in every situation and never, no matter how much an adven-
ture centers in himself, does he depart in what he tells of himself
from his character as I know him.

I would not have devoted all of the time I have to this day's entry
if I had not a good day's work to my credit including the conception of
a new picture so vivid that the doing of it will be mere copying. It is
the " North Wind. " Surely after the past four days I may tell with
authority of that wild Prince from the North.

Wednesday, December eleventh.

Yesterday was too gloomy a day for me to risk a page in this jour-
_nal. As to weather it was another fierce one, cold and windy. As to
work accomplished — nothing. Olson in his cabin, on such a day, is
a treat to see. I open the door and enter. There he sits near the
stove, a black astrakhan cap on his head and the two female goats in
full possession of the cabin. Nanny the milch goat is a most affec-
tionate creature. She lays her head on Olson's lap and as he scratches
her head her eyes close in blissful content.

" See her pretty little face, " says Olson, " and her lovely lips. "
He's certainly the kindest creature to animals— and to human ones
too we have good reason to know.

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WILDERNESS

To-day it is milder. The vapor is thick on the bay but it lies low
upon the water and the magnificent mountains sparkle in the sunlight.

Work has gone better for me and it has been a day not without
accomplishment. I baked bread— beautiful bread, cut wood, helped
Olson a bit, and had a glorious rough-house with my son. He's a
great fighter. I train him for the fights he's bound to have some day
by letting him attack me with all his strength; and that has come
to be not a little thing.

Friday, December thirteenth.

In the midst of letter writing I stop to note down a dramatic cloud
effect. That's the way the day's work goes. If I'm out-of-doors busy
with the saw or axe I jump at once to my paints when an idea comes.
It's a fine life and more and more I realize that for me at least such
isolation — not from my friends but from the unfriendly world — is the
only right life for me. My energy is too unrestrained to have offered
to it the bait for fight and play that the city holds out, without its being
spent in absolutely profitless and trivial enterprises. And here what

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a haven of peace ! Almost the last touch is added to its perfection by
the sweet nature of the old man Olson. I have never known such a
man. I'm no admirer of the " picturesqueness " of rustic character.
Seen close to it's generally damnably stupid and coarse. I have seen
the working class from near at hand and without illusion. But Olson !
he has such tact and understanding, such kindness and courtesy as
put him outside of all classes, where true men belong.

To-night it looked like the picture I have drawn. These are
beautiful days. Yesterday it was as calm in our little cove as one
would look for on a summer's day. The day was blue and mild, a day
for work. I made of my " North Wind " the most beautiful pic-
ture that ever was. I stood it facing outwards in the doorway and
from far off it still showed as vivid, more vivid, and brilliant than
nature itself. It's the first time I've taken my pictures into the broad
light. There's where they should be seen.

Last night was calm until four o'clock in the morning. Then the
wind again struck in and the trees roared and the roof creaked and
groaned. To-day it was calmer. We began by felling a tall spruce
more than two feet in diameter. It lies now near the cabin a great
screen of evergreen. Its wood should last us many weeks. I painted
out-of-doors on two pictures. That's bitterly cold work— to crouch
down in the snow; through bent knees the blood goes slowly, feet are
numbed, fingers stiffen. But then the warm cabin is near. . . .

This minute I've returned from splitting wood out in the moon-
light. On days when painting goes with spirit the chores are left

undone.

If only it were possible to put down faithfully all of Olson's
stories ! Last night he told of his return to San Francisco from the
Yukon thirty years ago, how the little band of weather-beaten,
crippled miners appeared on their return to civilization. Olson was on
crutches from scurvy, his beard and hair were of a year's growth;

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all were in their working clothes, all bearded, brown, free spirited.
And their wealth they carried on them in bags, gold, some to $7000
worth. As Olson tells it you yourself live in that day. You hear the
German landlady of the " Chicago Hotel" in San Francisco, a
motherly woman who put all the grub on the table at once so you could
help yourself, say, " You boys have some of you been in Alaska for
years and I know about how you've lived. Now that you're back you
must have a hankering for some things. Tell me whatever you want
and I'll get it for you. " And up spoke one big fellow, " I remember
how my mother used to have cabbage. I want you to get me one big
head and cook it and let me have it all to myself!"

That night they went to the music halls in their miners' clothes
all as they were, and drank gallons of beer; and from the boxes and
the balconies the girls all clamored to be asked to join them — who
were such free spenders. Two days later they were paid in coin for
their gold — by the mint — and all went to the tailors and got them fine
suits of clothes. . . . And so it continues. And he told of Custer's
massacre. And, to-night of the sagacity of horses in leading a trapper
back to the traps he'd set and maybe lost. When a horse swims with
you across a stream guide him with your hand on his neck, but pull
not ever so little on the line or he'll rear backwards in the water and
likely drown himself and you.

Saturday, December fourteenth.

A pretty useless day. No work accomplished but the daily chores.
What is there to say of such a day. Olson brought over his letter to
Kathleen to-night and read it to us. It's just like him to be really
himself even at letter writing. The letter is full of nice humor.
" She'll think what kind of an old fool is that," he said, " but what
do I care. I'll just say whatever I feel like saying." And he always
does. In a mild way he lives Blake's proverb, " Always speak the

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HOME

truth and base men will avoid you." Some people have found Olson
very rough and ill-mannered.

Made bread to-night and stamped about seventy-five envelopes
with my device. To-night it is mild and overcast. A light snow has
begun to fall. So far this winter the fall of snow has been extremely
light. It should bank up almost to the cabin's eaves. . . . My bed
awaits me. Good-night.

Sunday, December fifteenth.

This is another day that is hardly worth recording, one that would
not be missed from a life.

It's time something were again said about young Rockwell who is
the real, live, crowning beauty of the community. Weeks have passed
since I last recorded his fresh delight in everything here. It is the
same to-day. For hours he plays alone out-of-doors. Now he's an
animal crawling on all fours along the trunk of a tree that I have
felled, going out upon its horizontal branches as the porcupines do,
hiding himself in the foliage and growling fiercely— hours long it
seems — while the foolish goats flee in terror and the foxes race wildly
up and down the extent of their corral. Again he's a browsing creature
eating the spruce needles with decided relish,— doing it so seriously.
Truly he lives the part he plays when it is one of his beloved wild
creatures. Then he tears up and down the beach mounted like a four-
year-old kid on a stick horse, yelling as loud as he can, going to the
water's edge, and racing the swell as it mounts the slope. And pres-
ently I capture him for his end of the saw. At that he no longer
knows fatigue,— he's as good as a man. He really never tires and the
work goes on with a fine, jolly good-will that makes of the hardest
chore one of the day's pleasures. Rockwell is lonely at times; but
if he tells me he'd like somebody to play with he's sure to add in the
same breath, "Ah well, never mind."

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WILDERNESS

I don't know how such a haphazard education if continued would
fit him for participation in the " practical " affairs of life. But I am
convinced that if all the little beauties of spirit that can now be seen
budding could be allowed free, clean growth, quite away from the
brutal hand of mass influences, we'd have nothing less than the fuU
and perfect flowering of a human soul; — and in our Teachings toward
supermanhood none can do more.

Here, as an example, is an achievement of his imagination that it is
hard to picture as surviving long in the atmosphere of a large school.
Rockwell for two or three years has called himself the " mother of
all things. " It is not a figure of speech with him but an attitude to-
wards life. If it were the creed of a great poet — and it could be —
the discerning critic might discover it to be of the profoundest signifi-
cance in modern thought. In little Rockwell it is of one piece with his
whole spirit which expresses itself in his love for all animals, the
fiercest to the mildest, and for all growing things. The least manifes-
tation of that which is thought to be typical cruelty of boys outrages
his whole nature.

I am far from believing Rockwell to be a unique example of
childhood. I think that while cruelty appears uppermost where boys
herd together, the love of animals is no less characteristic of many
sensitive children. But of this I am certain, — that nothing will make
a child more ridiculous in the eyes of the mob child than this most
perfect and most beautiful attitude of some children toward life. In
considering the education of a child and weighing what is to be gained
or lost by one system or another I am inclined to think that no gain
can outweigh the loss to a child of its loving, non-predatory impulses.

Tuesday, December seventeenth.

Once a miner died and presently found his way to the gates of
heaven.

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" What do you want? " said St. Peter.

" To come in, of course."

" What sort of man are you? "

"I'm a miner."

"Well," said St. Peter, "we've never had anyone of that kind
here before, so I suppose you might as well come in."

But the miner once within the gates fell to tearing up the golden
streets of heaven, digging ditches and tunnels all over the place and
making a frightful mess of it all. At last a second miner presented
himself at the gates.

" Not on your life," said St. Peter. " We have one miner here
and we only wish we knew some way to get rid of him. He's tearing
up the whole place.

" Only let me in," said the second miner, " and I'll promise to
get rid of that fellow for you." So St. Peter admitted him.

This second miner easily found the other who was hard at work
amid a shower of flying earth. Going up to him he cried in an under-
tone : " Partner ! They've struck gold in Hell ! "

The miner dropped his work and sprang toward the gates.
"Peter, Peter, open, open ! Let me out of Heaven, I'm off to
Hell!"

What a book of yarns and jokes this is becoming! To-day
work went a little better— and the weather a little worse. It
pours. For the end of December it is wonderfully mild; but
then I expect little really cold weather here. To-night it is full
moon. The tide is at its highest for the year and the southeast
wind piles the water up till it reaches and overflows the land.
Olson expects it to touch his house to-night if the wind continues.
Tree trunks, uprooted somewhere from the soil, monstrous and
grotesque, grind along our beach; the water is full of driftwood
and wreckage.

WILDERNESS

Wednesday, December eighteenth.

There's a little bucket of dough that stands forever on the shelf
behind the stove. Sour dough is made with yeast, flour, and water
to the consistency of a bread sponge and then allowed to stand in-
definitely. For all that you take out you add more flour and water to
what's left in the bucket and that shortly is as fit for use as the origi-
nal mixture. Alaskans use it extensively as the basis for bread and
hot cakes. You add but a pinch of soda and a little water to the
proper consistency and it's all ready for use. The old tune Alaskans
rejoice in the honorable title of " Sour Doughs."

Olson's cabin in Seward stands comfortably on a little lot hi a
quite thickly settled part of the town. I wondered at his affluence in
possessing a house and lot. Here is its history as he told it to me to-
night. When Olson first came to Seward he built — or he bought
already built — a little cabin standing on a part of the beach now occu-
pied by the railroad yard. In course of tune he went to Valdez for a
winter's work. Returning, he found no cabin. It was gone from that
spot and he has not found it since. But corporations and govern-
ments are nothing to Olson when he feels himself injured. He went
to one official and said, " See here ! Winter's at hand and I have no
house, what are you going to do about it?" Well, they would see
what could be done, and in time referred him to a higher authority.
"I want a cabin," Olson said to this one. "If you don't give me the
lumber to build one with I'll have to steal it from you. I have no
money and no cabin. Winter is here and I'm certainly going to live
hi a cabin this winter." So they gave him an old shed to tear down
and use but told him not to build on the beach. The town of Seward
was laid off in lots. By the stakes Olson could tell a lot from a street,
and fair and square on a lot, somebody's lot, he put his cabin. The
owner of the land was tolerant and let it stay there a few years ; but
one day he ordered Olson's house taken off. So Olson carried it

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somehow out into the middle of the street where it fitted in nicely
among the tree stumps. Well and good for a little time till in the
summer before last the town of Seward improved that street and sent
a man and team to remove the stumps. "If you're paid to remove
the stumps you may as well move my house for me, " said Olson.
"Where to?" asked the man. "You can suit yourself," said Olson.
So the cabin was again planted on a "desirable" lot of somebody's,
-and there it stands to-day, neat and trim, with a little wooden walk
connecting its doorway with the plank sidewalk of the street. Alaska
is, to be sure, a great free country !

To-day has been wonderfully mild and comfortable. From time
to time the rain has fallen gently. Over the water the clouds have
drooped, hiding the mountain peaks. The sea has been glassy save
for the long swell — and this more to be heard upon the beach than
seen. Rockwell and I at dusk walked the shore out to the point be-
tween the coves. We saw the glowing sky where the sun had set,
the mountainous islands to the southward, and our own cove and its
mountain ramparts — beautiful in the black and white of the spruces
and the snow. If I but had my prepared canvas I'd make large studies
of the many views from this point.

Rockwell at dinner begged me repeatedly to have part of his
junket besides my own. I wondered at it for although he is always
considerate and polite this was almost too much. And in other ways
I noticed his alacrity to be obliging. Later in the day he told me,
after much embarrassment, that he had made up his mind to be
nicer about everything and to do more for me,— and yet I had pre-
viously found no fault with him; how could I! So ends a day;— and
again I think that in this country I would gladly live for years.

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CHAPTER VIII
CHRISTMAS

Thursday, December nineteenth.

day is never to be forgotten, so beautiful, so calm,
so still with the earth and every branch and tree muffled
in deep, feathery, new-fallen snow. And all day the
softest clouds have drifted lazily over the heaven
shrouding the land here and there hi veils of falling
snow, while elsewhere or through the snow itself the sun shone.
Golden shadows, dazzling peaks, fairy tracery of branches against the
blue summer sea ! It was a day to Live, — and work could be forgotten.
So Rockwell and I explored the woods, at first reverently tread-
ing one path that the snow about us might still lie undisturbed.
But soon the cub in the boy broke out and he rolled in the
deepest thickets, shook the trees down upon himself, lay still
in the snow for me to cover him completely, washed his face till
it was crimson, and wound up with a naked snow-bath. I photo-

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graphed him standing thus in the deep snow at the water's edge
with the mountains far off behind him. Then he dried himself
at the roaring fire we'd made ready and felt like a new boy — if
that can be imagined. We both sketched out-of-doors for a little
while in the morning like young lady amateurs. I tried it again
two or three times throughout the day with indifferent results ; it
was too beautiful. We cut wood too, and that went with a zest.
While Rockwell dried himself after his bath I searched in the
woods for a Christmas tree and cut a fair-sized one at last for
its top. Christmas is right upon us now. To-night the cranberries
stew on the stove.

Friday, December twentieth.

The beautiful snow is fast going under the falling rain! With
only five more days before Christmas it is probable we'll have
little if any snow on the ground then. A snowless Christmas in

Alaska !

This day was as uneventful as could be. Part of the morning was
consumed in putting a new handle into the sledge hammer. It was
too dark to paint long, really hardly an hour of daylight. These days
slip by so easily and with so little accomplished! Only by burning
midnight oil can much be done.

Sunday, December twenty-second.

Both yesterday and to-day it has poured rain. They've not been
unpleasant days, however. Occasional let-ups have allowed us
to cut wood and get water without inconvenience. This morning
Olson, fearing that a continuance of the mild weather would melt
the ice in the lake and send his bags of fish to the bottom, went
out to the center of the lake where they hung suspended through

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WILDERNESS

a hole in the ice and brought them in. But so precarious has the
ice become that he carried a rope and took me along hi case of
trouble. To get out upon the ice we had to go some distance along
the lake's shore.

Returning we missed meeting Rockwell who had gone to join us.
Not for some time did it occur to me to call him. It was well I did
call. The poor boy on not seeing us had suddenly concluded we were
drowned. A strip of water separated him from the ice. He was on
the point of wading into this at the moment I called him. He was still
terribly excited when he reached us.

Both days I have been occupied with humble, housewifely duties,
-baking, washing, mending, and now the cabin is adorned with our
drying clothes. Here where water must be carried so far it is the
wet days that are wash days. Darning is a wretched nuisance.
We should have socks enough to tide us over our stay here. Last
night after Rockwell had been put to bed I sat down and did two
of the best drawings I have made. At half past twelve I finished
them, and then to calm my elation a bit for sleep read in the
" Odyssey." At this my second reading of the book it's as in-
tensely interesting — or more so — than before. As a story it is in-
comparably better than the "Iliad." To me it is full of suggestions
for wonderful pictures.

Ten days from now it comes due for Olson to go to Seward. If
only then we have mild, calm weather ! But as yet we have seen no
steamer go to Seward since early hi the month. It looks as if the
steamship companies had combined to deprive Alaska of its Christ-
mas mail and freight in a policy of making the deadlock with the
government over the mail contracts intolerable. Meanwhile, instead
of serving us, the jaunty little naval cruisers that summered here in
idleness doubtless loaf away the whiter months in comfortable south-
ern ports.

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CHRISTMAS

Monday, December twenty-third.

Up to this morning the hard warm rain continued, and now the
stars are all out and it might be thought a night in spring. At eight-
thirty I walked over in sneakers and underwear for a moment's call
on Olson, but he had gone to bed. And now although we'll have no
snow the weather is fair for Christmas.

If Olson believes, as he says, that Christmas will pass as any other
day he is quite wrong. The tree waits to be set up and it will surely be
a thing of beauty blazing with its many candles in this somber log in-
terior. I've given up the idea of dressing Olson as Santa Claus in goat's
wool whiskers. Santa Claus without presents would move us to tears.
There are a few little gifts, — a pocketknife and a kitchen set of knife,
fork, and can-opener for Olson. An old broken fountain pen for Rock-
well, some sticks of candy, — and the dinner ! What shall it be? Wait !

It is midnight. I've just finished a good drawing. The lamp is
about at its accustomed low mark — yesterday it had to be filled twice !
Those nights when without a clock I sat up so late and to so uncertain
an hour I have discovered by the lamp and clock together to have been
really long. My bedtime then was after two or three o'clock — but I
arose later. To-day I finished a little picture for Olson and so did
Rockwell. These were forgotten in my list of presents as I've just
written it. I have shown in my picture the king of the island himself
striding out to feed the goats while Billy, rearing on his hind legs,
tries to steal the food on the way. Rockwell's picture is of Olson
surrounded by all the goats in a more peaceful mood. Olson's cabin
is in the background. I wish we had more to give the good old man.
At any rate he dines with us.

Christmas Eve !

We've cleaned house, stowed everything away upon shelves and
hooks and in corners, moved even my easel aside; decorated the roof

139

WILDERNESS

timbers with dense hemlock boughs, stowed quantities of wood
behind the stove — for there must be no work on that holiday —
and now both Rockwell and I are in a state of suppressed excitement
over to-morrow.

What a strange thing ! Nothing is coming to us, no change in any
respect in the routine of our lives but what we make ourselves, — and
yet the day looms so large and magnificent before us ! I suppose the
greatest festivals of our lives are those at which we dance ourselves.
You need nothing from outside, — not even illusion. Certainly chil-
dren need to be given scarcely an idea to develop out of it an atmos-
phere of mystery and expectation as real and thrilling to themselves
as if it rested upon true belief.

Well, the tree is ready, cut to length with a cross at the foot to
stand upon, and a cardboard and tin-foil star to hang at its top. And
now as to Christmas weather. This morning, as might just as well
have been expected, was again overcast. Toward evening light snow
began to fall. It soon turned to rain and the ram now has settled
down to a gentle, even, all-night-and-day pace. Let it snow or
rain and grow dark at midday! -The better shall be our good
Christmas cheer within. This is the true Christmas land. The day
should be dark, the house further overshadowed by the woods, tall
and black. And there in the midst of that somber, dreadful gloom
the Christmas tree should blaze in glory unrivaled by moon or sun
or star.

Christmas Day on Fox Island.

It is mild ; the ground is almost bare and a warm rain falls. First
the Christmas tree all dripping wet is brought into the house and set
upon its feet. It is nine feet and a half high and just touches the peak
of the cabin. There it stands and dries its leaves while Rockwell and
I prepare the feast.

140

SUPERMAN

CHRISTMAS

Both stoves are kept burning and the open door lets in the
cool air. Everything goes beautifully; the wood burns as it should
the oven heats, the kettle boils, the beans stew, the bread browns
in the oven just right, and the new pudding sauce foams up as
rich and delicious as if instead of the first it were the hundredth
time I'd made it. And now everything is ready. The clock stands
at a quarter to three. Night has about fallen and lamp light is
in the cabin.

" Run, Rockwell, out-of-doors and play awhile." Quickly I stow
the presents about the tree, hang sticks of candy from it, and light
the candles.

Rockwell runs for Mr. Olson, and just as they approach the cabin
the door opens and fairyland is revealed to them. It is wonderful.
The interior of the cabin is illuminated as never before, as perhaps
no cabin interior ever was among these wild mountains. Then all
amazed and wondering those two children come in. Who knows
which is the more entranced?

Then Olson and I drink in deep solemnity a silent toast ; and the
old man says, "I'd give everything — yes everything I have in the
world — to have your wife here now ! "

And the presents are handed out. For Olson this picture from
Rockwell. Ah, he thinks it's wonderful! Then for Rockwell this
book — a surprise from Seward. Next for Olson a painting, a kitchen
set, and a pocketknife. By this time he's quite overcome. It's the
first Christmas he has ever had ! And Rockwell, when he is handed
two old copies of the " Geographic Magazine " cries in amazement,
" Why I thought I was to have no presents ! " But he gets besides a
pocketknife and the broken fountain pen and sits on the bed looking
at the things as if they were the most wonderful of gifts.

Dinner is now set upon the table. Olson adjusts his glasses and
reads the formal menu that lies at his place.

143

WILDERNESS

So we feast and have a jolly good tune.

It is a true party and looks like
one. Rockwell and I are in clean
white shirts, Olson is magnificent
hi a new flannel shirt and his Sun-
day trousers and waistcoat. He
wears a silk tie and hi it a gold
nugget pin. He is shaven, and
clipped about the ears. How grand
he looks! The food is good and
plentiful, the night is long, only the
Christmas candles are short-lived
and we extinguish them to save
them for another time. Finally as
the night deepens Olson leaves us
amid mutual expressions of delight
in each other's friendship, and Rock-
well and I tumble into bed.

The next day and the next it is
mild, resting — the weather seems to
be — at this peaceful holiday season.
We cut no wood and do little work.
We write long letters, both of us,
and consume at meal-time the food
left over from Christmas. I read the

J/»ag/!etft a fa. ^

* Jto ft. t-

a fa XcstsrrecetQA •&<*/

yfite* en Catscro/e
Cranberry t/at/ce
f J)cfsert •*•

•Sauce a. fa
2)crrtt

xat,e«f 8on-£>0*f " Odyssey," great story! Just now
ju,fe* jf0*e e*«er I am past that magnificent slaughter
* of the wooers, else these delayed

AJ, *fie German, Sancf . pagGS WOUld Still be Unwritten. A

few more Odysseys to read here in this wild place and one could
forget the modern world and return in manners and speech and

144

CHRISTMAS

thought to the heroic age. That would be an adventure worth try-
ing ! Maybe we are not so deeply permeated with the culture of to-
day that we could not throw it off. Surely the spirit of the heroes
strikes home to our hearts as we read of them in the ancient books.

Saturday, December twenty-eighth.

For the first time in days the sun has risen in a clear sky and
shone upon the mountains across from us. It is colder, for ice has
formed again on the tub of water out-of-doors. But there is a little
wind.

I am writing in preparation for Olson's trip. He too is making
ready. Food for the foxes is on the stove for many days' feeding,
his engine gets a little burnishing — it's no insignificant voyage to
Seward in the winter. If only it holds out fair and calm until a steamer
comes ! There's the hitch now. We have seen none go to Seward
since the first of the month.

To-morrow probably the Christmas tree must come down. The
hemlock trimmings shed all over the cabin till to-day I tore them out.
Last night we had our final lighting of the tree. Rockwell and I stood
out-of-doors and looked in at it. What a marvelous sight in the
wilderness. If only some hapless castaways had strayed in upon us
lured by that light ! We sang Christmas carols out there in the dark,
did a Christmas dance on the shore, and then came in and while the
tree still burned told each other stories. Rockwell's story was about
the adventures of some children in the woods, full of thrilling climaxes.
It came by the yard. I told him of an Indian boy who, longing for
Christmas, went out into the dark woods at night and closed his eyes.
And how behind his closed eyes he found a world rich in everything
the other lacked. There was his Christmas tree and to it came the
wild animals. They got each a present, the mother porcupine a box
of little silken balls to stick onto her quills for decoration, and the

145

WILDERNESS

father porcupine a toothbrush because his large teeth were so very
yellow. After the story it was bedtime. Well . . . this fair day has
passed, and with the night have come clouds and a cold gloom fore-
boding snow. But I have learned to expect nothing of the weather
but what it gives us.

Sunday, December twenty-ninth.

Squirlie's birthday party. Squirlie is seated in a condensed milk
box. At his back hangs a brown sweater. About him stand his
presents consisting chiefly of feathers. The table is spread with the
feast in shells and the whole is brilliantly illuminated by a Christmas
tree candle. Long life to Squirlie and may he never fall to pieces nor
be devoured by moths !

Monday, December thirtieth.

Yesterday it rained gently, to-day it pours. I sit here with the
door open and the stove slumbering — such weather in this country
that the world believes to be an iceberg ! But in Seward and on the
mountains no doubt it is snowing enough. To-day I made so good a
drawing that I'm sitting up as if the flight of time and the coming of
morning were no concern of mine. It is half -past twelve !

New Year's Eve! Tuesday. This is the tenth anniversary of
Rockwell's parents and I have kept it as well as I could, working all
day upon a drawing for his mother and to-night holding a kind of song
service with Rockwell. Rockwell, who at nine years has every reason
to celebrate to-day, however he may feel at twenty-nine, has written
his mother a sweet little letter. I'm terribly homesick to-night and
don't know what to say about it hi these genial pages. It has been a
solemn day.

When Olson was here to-night I began from playing the flute to
sing. He was delighted and I continued. What a strange performance

146

THE NORTH WIND

CHRISTMAS

here in the wilderness, a little boy, an old man, listening as I sing
loudly and solemnly to them without accompaniment. Olson brought
us a pan of goat's milk to-day, as he often does. I make junket of it
and it is a truly delicious dish, ever so much better than when made
of cow's milk. It resembles a jelly of pure cream.

It has rained hard most of the day. At times a mist has hung in a
band halfway up the mountain's height across the bay. It is a remark-
able sight. To-night is as warm as any night in spring or autumn.
It thaws continually and even the ice that once covered the ground
beneath the snow is fast disappearing. The year goes out without a
steamer having been seen to come with the Christmas mail.

It is close to midnight. I have one secret resolution to make for
the new year and, that I may make it as earnestly and as truly as
possible, the stars and the black sky shall be my witness. And so
with the year nineteen hundred and eighteen I end this page.

149

CHAPTER IX
NEW YEAR

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 break-
fast, 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

150

NEW YEAR

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. Rock-
well 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 hi 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.

WILDERNESS

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

ANOTHER OF ROCKWELL'S DRAWINGS

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. Fve written more than I intended writing.
My heart is set upon the mail and nothing else.

152

NEW YEAR

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. Yester-
day 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, ram 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

153

WILDERNESS

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 ram 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. Rock-
well 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

154

WELTSCHMERZ

NEW YEAR

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 hi pictures
and stories a child asks for above all, and those qualities in illustra-
tion are the rarest.

Monday, January thirteenth.

Of the three days that have again passed two have been quite
fan- 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

157

WILDERNESS

lake where they had been soaking and cook up another great sup-
ply 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 six-
teen 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, fan-, 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

158

VICTORY

NEW YEAR

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 ah- the
smoke ascends straight up into the blue night sky.

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 foot-
prints 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 i . fox goan the litle f email 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 gel

11 161

WILDERNESS

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 hi 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.

162

NEW YEAR

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

163

WILDERNESS

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 may-

164

ZARATHUSTRA AND HIS PLAYMATES

NEW YEAR

be 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 Rock-
well'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.

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
na'ive. 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 ex-
perienced. Both yesterday and to-day the wind has been excep-
tionally 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

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WILDERNESS

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 water-
fall. What a book to illustrate! The translator of it says that
Zarathustra is such a being as Nietzsche would have liked him-
self to be, — in other words his ideal man. It seems to me that
the ideal of a man is the real man. You ate 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 tenden-
cies— but rather a being perfect for one special place ; and this is
Olson's creed.

My chief criticism of Zarathustra is his taste for propagan-
da. 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.

1 68

FROZEN FALL

NEW YEAR

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 hi 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 ad-

171

WILDERNESS

dresses 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. uNo, 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 to-
day continues it with rain most of the time. So we've stayed within

172

THE HERMIT

NEW YEAR

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.

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 hi 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.

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WILDERNESS

"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, out-
ward 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 per-
formance 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

176

ECSTASY

NEW YEAR

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.

Wednesday, February fifth.

A beautiful snowstorm all the day and to-night, still and mild.
Rockwell has been out in it all day dressed hi 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 pro-
visions. 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 hi 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 hi at my window.
What a joyous sight after months of shadow ! To-night the sun at set-
ting 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 Rock-
well 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

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WILDERNESS

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

1 80

NEW YEAR

as we slept but not enough to be uncomfortable. The cabin is for-
tunately 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.

181

CHAPTER X
OLSON!

E returned last night, the eleventh of February, in a
blaze of glory ! Ah, the wonder of it and of all he
brought. Rockwell and I sat at our cards just before
supper-time. The day, a calm one, a fair one, had
passed and Olson again had not come. We were
downcast. Every possible cause for his continued
absence had been reviewed in my mind. To wait longer was
not to be endured. And so we sat with far-off thoughts and toyed
with the silly cards. Suddenly the long, clear sound of a boat's
horn reached us from the night outdoors. We ran and peered
into the darkness. At last we saw a black spot moving far out
on the water. Oh God! it was entering the cove. In what a
frenzy of excitement we hurried down the beach! Nearer they
come and nearer, men's voices, the little cabin light, and the vessel
gliding toward us ; they're abreast of us, they drop anchor. " Olson,
Olson," I shout, "Olson, is that you?" "He's aboard," is an-

182

OLSON!

swered, " How are you, and how's the little boy? " We see them
loading a dory from the vessel's deck,— and now they row it to the
shore. It's good to see a fine young fisherman and shake his hand.
Again and once again the loads are ferried in and carried up the
long and slippery low-tide beach. Rockwell has lighted Olson's
lamp, he sweeps his cabin, and starts the fire in the stove. At the last
load I slip aboard the vessel. lam "wanted." There stands Olson
swaying gigantic on the deck above us as we bump the side. A bear's
greeting ! Olson is radiant, radiant and mellow with the joy of home-
coming and the warmth of tasted spirits. The skipper I know, yes!
the good Englishman, Hogg, who had us once to dinner at his camp.
Down in the cabin in the heat and fumes of a cooking feast we tip the
friendly bottle.

Ah ! tell me not, abstainer, of any glories you have known. One
night, one midnight out on the black waters of a Newfoundland harbor,
the million stars above, and on the wretched vessel's deck the hoard
of half-drunk, soul-starved men saying their passionate farewells,-
on the dull plain of then- life a flash of lightning revealing an abyss ;-
this night on the still, dark cove of Resurrection Bay, rimmed with
wild mountains and the wilderness, strong men about you, mad,
loosened speech and winged, prophetic vision,— God! but sane day-
light seeing seems to touch but the white, hard surface of where life is

hidden.

From the hot cabin I climbed the boat's ladder, up, up onto the
world's heights. Ah, how the cold, clean wind from the wide spaces
then swept my soul, and how close about my head the dome of heaven
and the stars ! This is no earth-ship but the deck of a meteor vessel
that I tread, the moon ship of the ancient northern gods.

I row ashore for Rockwell, stow the goods higher on the beach,
and we return aboard for supper. Over Rockwell the skipper makes a
great fuss, says he's a famous oarsman and could beat his daddy, a

183

WILDERNESS

fine, big, strong boy. Warm hearted skipper ! — and he reaches again
for the bottle and I drink. It's vinegar! Profuse apologies, and the
right one is found.

We eat, we stuff !— and then the three of us, Rockwell laden with
presents of fruit, say good-night and row ashore. Poor, tired Olson
has little strength to move the heavy loads from the beach. No matter,
I struggle alone and finally stow them hi his cabin, a great pile. Then
a cup of coffee with the old man, a little furious talk about the war, —
fury at a world that could mess things so, — and home to bed where
already Rockwell slept.

This morning the icy bath. Then without breakfast we began
upon our mail. What a wonderful Christmas at last ! The bed was
piled high with presents, the table high with letters. We sorted and
gloated like hungry tigers that in the ecstasy of possession merely
lick their food. All through the morning and deep into the afternoon
I read the mail. Unwashed dishes stood about, for meals we but
ate what was at hand. (Here follows in the journal a list two pages
long of presents, of books — what a shelf of them! — woolen clothes
and sheepskin slippers, music for the flute, plum-pudding, candy,
chocolate, cigarettes, — and ever so much more.) And that being
about seven times as much as we've ever had before is all. Ah, in
the wilderness you love your friends and they too think of you. Better
than all, though, are the letters; such friendly letters never were
before.

Friday, February fourteenth.

The days go like the wind. So warm to-day and yesterday I We
live out-of-doors. Now as I write the door stands open and the soft,
moist, spring air enters to dispel the fumes of turpentine. I primed
eight canvases to-day, six of which I had also stretched. This
afternoon I painted at the northern end of the beach almost be-

184

PELAGIC REVERIE

OLSON!

neath a frozen waterfall, an emerald of huge size and wonderful
form.

Rockwell is in high spirits. I think the augmentation of our diet
brought by Olson's return will do him a lot of good. We had cut down
on our use of milk to a can in two or three days. Now we may live on
fish which Olson has in such quantities that we're to help ourselves.
Olson has insisted on my accepting a fifty-pound sack of flour for my
services during his six weeks' absence, and I expect to find it hard to
be allowed to return the cereals that I am borrowing. What a con-
trast this free-handed country to the mean spirit of Newfoundland !

Monday, February seventeenth.

Three days ! and what has happened? I guess that on the first of
them I stretched and painted canvas. On the second all day I painted
out-of-doors, it was quite summer-like and the sun shone through dia-
mond-dripping trees. And to-day I have written from early morning
before breakfast until now, eleven at night. I have decided to go to
Seward in a few days. It has become necessary to go back to New
York very soon. I told Rockwell of this to-day and his eyes have
scarcely been dry since. He has reasoned with me and inquired into
every detail of the situation. He doesn't want to go to New York
nor even to live in the country in the East. There'll be no ocean
near nor any warm pond for bathing. And not even the thought that
elsewhere he'd have playmates weighs against his love for this spot.

You should see Sir Lancelot now. His clothes are outgrown and
outworn. They hang in tatters about him. His trousers are burst
from the knee to the hip, his overalls that cover them are rags. His
shirt is buttonless but for two in front. From above tattered elbows
his sleeves hang in ribbons. His hair is long and shaggy; where it
hung over his eyes I have cut it off short. But, his fair cheeks are as
pink as roses, his eyes are beautiful and blue, his lips are red, and his

187

WILDERNESS

face glows always with expression. So we don't care a rap for the
rest — only Rockwell does ! One day after he had regarded for a long
time a certain unfortunate photograph of himself in which he looked
like an idiot, he said, " Father, I'd like to dress up some day and put
on my best clothes and brush my hair, — because I want to see if I
really look like I do in this picture." Rockwell loves to look well and
it's a real treat for him to dress up. So, that being the case and his
tidy nature being so well assured I don't trouble a bit to adorn him.
He cleans his teeth regularly and likes to do it. Mornings we get
up together and go through a set of Dr. Sargent's exercises, do them
with great energy. Then we go naked out-of-doors. The period of
chattering teeth is past. No matter what the weather is we go calmly
out into it, lie down in the drift, look up into the sky, and then scrub
ourselves with snow. It's the finest bath in the world.

It rains to-day — or snows. The snow lies three feet deep on the
level. At our windows it is above the sills. In Seward, — have I
written this before? — it lies so deep that one can't see across the
street. The snow is the deepest, and that last cold snap the coldest,
of any winter remembered or recorded. The cold was very many
degrees below zero. So we have experienced a true winter. We're
so glad to know it.

Tuesday, February eighteenth.

Such mild weather ! With the fire nearly out it's hot indoors to-
night. A little snow, a little rain, but altogether a pleasant day. It's
always pleasant when I paint well. To-day I redeemed two straying
pictures and they're among the elect now. To-night a steamer en-
tered from the westward, the Curacao, long expected. She must
have been here two or three days ago and since then been to Seldovia.
With incredible slowness she crept over the water. What old hulks
they do put onto this Alaska service.

1 88

PRISON BARS

OLSON!

Rockwell's mothering of all things exceeded reason to-day. He
put two sticks of wood on the fire after I had intended it to go out.
I removed them, blazing merrily. " Don't " cried Rockwell seriously,
" you'll hurt the fire's feelings. "

Rockwell cleared off the boat to-day. Next we must dig her out.
To-morrow the engine must be put hi order. We must find a hole in
the gasoline tank and solder it and then coax it into starting. It is on
such jobs that whole precious days are wasted.

Rockwell loves every foot of this spot of land. To-night he spoke
of the beauties of the lake, its steep wooded shores, clean and pebbly,
and the one low, clear, and level spot where we approached the water.
He had planned to live this summer the day long on the shores of the
lake, naked, playing in and out of the water or paddling some craft
about. I thought of putting up a tent in some mossy dell along the
shore and letting Rockwell sleep there nights alone and learn early
the wonders of a hermit's life. And none of it is to be I

Wednesday, February nineteenth.

It rams and storms. But to-day we repaired the engine and we're
ready to start for Seward when it clears. Above every other thought
now is the sad realization that our days on this beloved island are
nearing an end. What is it that endears it so to a man near forty and
a little boy of nine? We have such widely different outlooks upon life.
It may be that Alaska stands midway between us, and that I, turning
backward from the crowded world that I have known and learned to
fear, meet Rockwell in his forward march from nothing-to this.
If that be so we have met only for a moment for such perfect sym-
pathy. His love will pass on from this and mine will grow dissatisfie
and wander still. But I think it's otherwise. It seems that we have
both together by chance turned out of the beaten, crowded way and
come to stand face to face with that infinite and unfathomable thing

191

WILDERNESS

which is the wilderness; and here we have found OURSELVES-
for the wilderness is nothing else. It is a kind of living mirror that
gives back as its own all and only all that the imagination of a man
brings to it. It is that which we believe it to be. So here we have
stood, we two, and if we have not shuddered at the emptiness of the
abyss and fled from its loneliness, it is because of the wealth of our
own souls that filled the void with imagery, warmed it, and gave it
speech and understanding. This vast, wild land we have made a
child's world and a man's.

I know nothing in all life more beautiful than the perfect
belief of Rockwell in his Paradise here. Unopposed, his romance
has kindled every object on the homestead ; so that now for hours
he can steal about in the forest, on the beach, along the lake, —
in absolute contentment, for it is wonderland itself. The "King's
road," the "Giant's path" where stand the gummy "ten-pound
butter tree" and all the giants with whom Sir Lancelot must joust,
the magpie's grave marked with a cross, the otter's cave, the marvel-
ous frozen stream ; those strange wild people, the Treaps, who visit
these shores occasionally to hunt the white man for his skin as the
white man has hunted their dear animals ; rain-bears and wild-cat-
eaters — appalling animals that inhabit the dark woods but are good
friends to Rockwell. Every log and rotten stump, the gnarled trees,
with or without "butter," every mound and path, the rocks, the
streams, each is a being in itself ; and with those most living goats, and
the brilliant magpies, the pretty, little, dingy sparrows, the glorious
and virtuous porcupines, the black, black crows, the great and noble
eagle, the rare spider and the rarer fly, and the wonderful, strong,
sleek otters that leap in sport through the snow and coast down-hill,
they make a world of romance that has thrilled one little boy to
the very bottom of his soul. To live here, to accumulate about him
more and more animals and shelter them from harm, to live forever

192

RUNNING WATER

OLSON!

or, if he must, grow old, and very old; here marry-not a Seward
girl but one more beautiful-or an Indian !-here raise a great family
—and here die. That now is the ideal of little Rockwell. And if we,
his family, all of us, would count we must come here to him where
with patriarchal magnificence and dignity he will care for us.

Thursday, February twentieth.

All day out-of-doors, both of us. In the morning Rockwell and I
journeyed around the point between the two coves of the island. It's
a rocky promontory with a great jumble of bowlders at its base that
one must scramble over. These are generally wet and slippery and
not much fun. However we went well around and I set up my canvas
and painted while Rockwell crawled about in caves and crevasses
playing some sort of wild beast. The wind rose as I finished and made
it difficult to convey my wet canvas without damaging it. And in the
afternoon again I painted on two pictures out-of-doors. That's to
be my work now till the time I go. To-morrow if the day is right we
start for Seward. Our boat is dug out of the snow, our goods are
packed, the engine chafes at the throttle. I am tired to-night and it is
bedtime.

Sunday, February twenty-third.

Friday was calm. We left the island at about eleven — after the
usual hours fussing with the engine. At Hogg's camp we called in
for something to bale with, for the boat, being leaky, had taken in a lot
of water. No one at home — so I stole a bowl from the shed and we
proceeded. By then the sun shone upon us and we could observe,
what we later confirmed at Seward, that the sun shines at the head
of the bay while the island, our island, is shrouded in clouds. Quite
different conditions prevail in the two localities. With us it is warmer
and much wetter. The recorded rainfall for Seward, that some time

195

WILDERNESS

ago seemed incredibly small, does not fit Fox Island at all. Olson's
records for last summer show prevailing rainy weather — and Seward
rejoiced in unprecedented sunshine ! And during these three days
in Seward now, days wonderfully fair, thick clouds have always been
over Fox Island. And even the wind blows there when Seward's
waters are calm.

And so on Friday we reached Seward with flying colors, stowed our
boat up high, put the engine into Olson's cabin, and walked again the
streets of civilization. Here everyone is friendly. The first night
Rockwell dined out at one house and slept at another with a lot of
children. What must they have thought of his underclothes ! I went
supperless — writing letters instead. And then flute music at the
postmaster's. Next day very early the steamer came and the day
passed for me in the wild excitement of receiving mail.

Wednesday, February twenty-sixth.

Yesterday we came home ! We left Seward with only a light load
aboard. It blew briskly hi the bay from the north. Before we
reached Caine's Head there was a splendid, white-crested chop racing
along with us. Midway across it was about all the engine could have
stood. The propeller is not set at enough depth in our boat and in
yesterday's sea it was most of the time out of water, racing at a furious
pace. Then the boat would naturally lose steerage way and we'd
swing far out of our course. But it was great sport. Into it we could
have made no headway; before it nothing could stop us. And the
engine kept right on going I— only as usual it was continually falling
apart. On Friday the flywheel came loose six times, the muffler four,
and the valve spring fell off and stayed off. Coming back all went well
till we were in the roughest sea ; then the muffler came loose. Not
wanting to stop the engine in that sea I spent half the tune on my
knees holding the tiller in one hand and the muffler nut with a pair

196

IMMANENCE

OLSON!

of pliers in the other. Rockwell bailed most of the time. The boat

leaks like a sieve.

And how fine to get home again ! Only an hour and we were again

seated at dinner hi our warm cabin. Rockwell said it was hard for

him to remember whether Mr. Olson or we had just been to Seward.

I brought Olson a battery box and batteries as a present. He was

much pleased. But particularly his mail pleased him. I saw him soon

after our arrival seated with his spectacles on studying his letters.

He rarely gets any. This time came a post-card and letter from

Rockwell's mother.

The day passed and evening came. Then appeared entering our

cove a cabined gasoline boat. Two young fellows came ashore and
we all chatted hi Olson's cabin. One had his wife aboard. They
claimed to be hunting a stray boat,— but Olson whispered to me later,
dramatically, that they were doubtless out dragging somewhere for
a cache of whiskey. Lots of whiskey has been sunk in the bay.
Marks were taken at the time to determine its location and now the
owners as need arises fish up what they want. It's just like the buried
treasure of the days of piracy. Doubtless there are now many charts
extant with the position of liquid treasure marked upon them.

To-day has been again overcast but beautifully mild. It is really
a wonderful climate. Rockwell makes the most of these last days.
He went this morning to the ridge's top east of us, and this afternoon
high up on the mountain side. He now wants to stay here and become
a wild man. There is no question in my mind about his entire willing-
ness, his desire, to be left here when I go.

199

CHAPTER XI
TWILIGHT

first of March! If only the dull weather would
clear up I could get more done these last days here.
Fifteen brand-new canvases hang from my ridge pole
waiting for pictures to adorn them. To-day is the
only day that work out-of-doors has been quite out of
the question. It snows hard. Last Thursday morning Rockwell and I
began to take our morning baths in the bay — the snow having become
too hard. And now at just seven-fifteen — on cloudy mornings,
clothed in sneakers we scamper down the shore and plunge into the
waves. Brrrrrrrr ! it's cold, but mighty good. Olson, after predicting
for some time a dire end to our morning performances, has at last
evinced enough curiosity to drag himself out of bed and come over
to see. But he has not yet been early enough to catch us.

The days are lengthening rapidly. It is now after six o'clock in
the evening and our lamp's not lighted !

Last time hi Seward Olson bought a lot of odds and ends of
molding for picture frames. And now, with my help, all the little
things that we have given him are gorgeously framed. On the little
picture of himself that I painted he has what he calls a "comoflag"

200

TWILIGHT

frame ; it's made of different moldings on the four sides. Well, Olson
is mighty proud of his pictures. He's really very fond of us. People
in Seward say he talks of us continually. And there it is thought
quite remarkable how I have managed with the " crazy " old man.
I guess the craziness explains it. I picture with horror having as a
constant companion here one of the fine, stalwart, shrewd, honest,
wholesome-to-sterility Americans that our country likes to be so
proud of.

I told Olson of Kathleen's amusement over the brusque ending of
his letter, " Answer this if you feel like it — and if you don't it's all the
same to me. "

" Well," he said, "that's the way it is here in Alaska; if anyone
don't like the way a man does he can go to Hell!"

I've heard an amusing story about Olson and his goats at a little
Seward exposition at which they were shown. They put his two goats
into narrow packing boxes that their dirt might not fall onto the floor
of the building. Olson arrived and seeing the plight of his pets flew
into a rage. He lifted them out, hurled the packing boxes out of the
door into the street, and denounced the fair-committee for their
abuse of animals. And although the whole place tumbled about the
old man's ears, he won, and saw his goats given an honorable amount
of freedom in a special enclosure— curtained off, "admission to see
the goats ten cents,"— which notice Olson promptly disregarded,
letting everyone in — and a big crowd at that — free.

Monday, March third.

Inauguration day passed here without event. In this ideal com-
munity of Fox Island we're so little concerned with law— the only law
that bears on us at all we delight in breaking-that one wonders how
far 120 government can be carried. One goes back to first principles
in such speculation, endows man again with inalienable rights or at

WILDERNESS

least inalienable desires, and then has simply to wonder how much
of the love of order there is in the natural man. The fact that a large
proportion of mankind can live and die without any definite knowledge
of the laws of the community and without ever running counter to the
forces of law is sign enough that most of the law code is but a writing
down of what the average man naturally wants to do or keep from
doing. There's a sharp difference between such "common" law
and the exceptional law that strikes at the personal liberty of a man,
laws concerning morals, temperance, or that conscript unwilling men
for war. In all law there is tyranny, in these laws tyranny shows its
hand. The man who wants true freedom must escape from the whole
thing. If only such souls could gravitate to a common center and
build the new community with inherent law and order as its sole
guide ! — well, we have returned to the problem. A state that was
truly interested in progress would dedicate a portion of its territory
to such an experiment. But no state is interested in anything but the
gain of one class, which means the oppression of the rest. How farci-
cal sound these days " Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness."
"No government without the consent of the governed," and other
old-fashioned principles. But they have still to be reckoned with till
the last Bolshevik has been converted into a prosperous tradesman
and the last idealist is dead. And now for Fox Island.

The weather is dull and gray — only last evening an hour before
sundown the clouds suddenly vanished out of the heavens and the
sun shone as warm and beautiful as on the fairest summer day. Then
I sat out-of-doors and painted while the snow and ice melted and
dripped all about. The mornings are cold, doubly cold it seems when
in the half-light of dawn and perhaps a driving snow squall we run
naked down the long stretch of beach and plunge into the bay. I work
ceaselessly. Time flies like mad and the day of our departure is
close.

202

THE VISION

TWILIGHT

Tuesday, March fourth.

A day of snow and rain spent by us indoors, Rockwell hard at
work upon his chart of " Trobbeabl Island »— a wonderful imaginary
land where his own strange species of wild animals live— and I wash-
ing and mending. My seaman's bag, damaged on its way here in the
hold of the steamer, is now quite professionally patched, and the
knee of my blue overalls shines with a square patch of white canvas.

Olson was welcome and spent much of the day with us. He has
reread Kathleen's letter to him and is charmed with it. He feels
authorized by it to keep me here longer and surely does his best to
persuade me. He treasures the picture little Kathleen sent him. All
these things, the letters and little trifles that we have given him will
be stored away hi his too empty box of treasures among a very few old
letters and a photograph or two of pioneer ladies and gentlemen in the
dress-up costumes of thirty years ago. These scant treasures, what a
memorial of a very lonely life ! He showed me to-day a photograph of
Tom Crane, an old associate of his in Idaho, and two large, splendid
looking women, Crane's wife and his wife's sister. The wife was
frozen to death in the snow while on a short journey with her husband.
He lost both feet. Olson led the rescue party bringing in with great
difficulty the dead woman and then tending Crane through long, pain-
ful days until his crippled recovery.

Thursday, March sixth.

It's mighty hard work, this painting under pressure. I'm too tired
to attempt more than the briefest record on this page of two days'
doings. Yesterday it was gray. At sundown it cleared giving us the
most splendid and beautiful sunset, the sun sinking behind the purple,
snowy mountains and throwing its rays upward into a seething red-
hot mass of clouds. I painted most of the afternoon out-of-doors.

To-day we bathed at sunrise, brisk and cold and clear. The

205

WILDERNESS

morning tide was so exceedingly low that I ran dry shod clear around
the north side of the cove until the whole upper bay was visible.
Olson had not known it could be done. Returning we put Olson's
boat into the water and Rockwell and I embarked with my painting
outfit. I landed on the point I had just visited afoot. Rockwell in
jumping ashore with the painter timed it badly, slipped, and fell full
length into the surf of the ground swell, the dory almost riding over
him. I roared with laughter— to his great fury. He rowed about in
the harbor for almost two hours returning to bring me home. In the
afternoon we repeated our excursion — all but the water sports — going
this time to the south side of the cove. Rockwell's a good little oars-
man and above all to be trusted to do as he's told to — a vice in
grown-ups, a virtue in children.

Friday, March seventh.

That to-day began in snow and cloud matters not, — it ended in a
glory. Olson, Rockwell, and I sat that late afternoon far out on the
bay basking in the warmth of a summer sun, rocked gently on a blue
summer sea. For hours we had explored the island's western shore,
skirting its tumbled reefs, riding through perilous straits right up to
where the eddying water seethed at some jagged chasm's mouth.
That's fine adventuring ! flirting with danger, safe enough but close —
so close to death. We landed on the beach of Sunny Cove, found in
the dark thicket the moldering ruins of an old feed house of the foxes,
gruesome with the staring bones of devoured carcasses. And then
we younger ones dashed up the sheer, snow-covered eastward ridge
— dashed on all fours digging our feet into the snow, clinging with
hands as to a ladder. There at the top two or three hundred feet
above the bay we overlooked the farthest seaward mountains of Cape
Resurrection, then Harwell Island and the open sea.

Ah, to see again that far horizon ! Wander where you will over all

206

THE IMPERISHABLE

TWILIGHT

the world, from every valley seeing forever new hills calling you to
climb them, from every mountain top farther peaks enticing you.
Always the distant land looks fairest, till you are made at last a rest-
less wanderer never reaching home—never—until you stand one
day on the last peak on the border of the hiterminable sea, stopped
by the finality of that.

From our feet the cliff dropped in a V-shaped divide straight down
to the green ocean; and at its base the ground swell curled, broke
white and eddied. The jagged mountains across shone white against
black clouds, — what peaks! huge and sharp like the teeth of the
Fenris-Wolf.

We hurried back to Olson who waited in the boat. That side
the cove and the more familiar mountains to the westward — lay half
shrouded in fast dissolving mist. The descent was real sport. We
just sat down and slid clear to the bottom, going at toboggan pace.
Poor Olson, who watched us from below, was aghast. On the shore
I found a long, thick bamboo pole, doubtless carried directly here from
the orient by the Japanese current. We longed to go across to Bear
Glacier that we could now see, a broad, inclined plane, spotless white,
with the tallest mountains rising steeply from its borders. But it was
too late and we returned home. The wonders of this country, of this
one bay in fact, it would take years to know !

Monday, March tenth.

On the eighth it snowed hard all day and both of us worked at our
trade indoors. The ninth dawned fresh and clear and cold. It was too
windy to go out onto the bay as we had intended, so, not to be entirely
cheated out of an excursion, we packed a bag of various supplies and
set off for the ridge to the eastward.

It was glorious in the woods. New fallen snow lay upon the tree
branches; the sun touched only the tallest tops, the wind rustled

14 20Q

WILDERNESS

them now and then and made it snow again below. We came out
upon the summit of the ridge more to the north than we had ever been
before and from there beheld again the open sea. Nothing can be
more wonderful than to emerge from the dense forest onto such a
view ! Right on the ridge we built a fire beneath the arched roots of
a large tree. Rockwell will long remember that wonderful chimney
beneath the roots. I painted on one of the canvases I had brought
while Rockwell played about or cut wood for the fire. Presently
the can of beans that we'd laid hi the ashes went pop ! — and we knew
that dinner was ready. So we sat down and ate the good beans, bread
and peanut butter, and chocolate, — while our backs sizzled and our
bellies froze. But we loved it and Rockwell proposed that we spend
three or four days there like that. Then after more painting and some
play in the snow we came home again.

But the beautiful days must be busy ones for me. I painted out on
the lake for an hour or more ; after that again — this time the glorious
sunset. After supper bread to bake and then, tired out, early to
sleep in our great, hard, comfortable bed. Olson would have started
to-day had the weather been moderate. But it has blown fiercely
from the north — and still it blows. All day I worked packing and now
my boxes are made and nearly filled. It is surely true that we are
going! All day it has seemed to me to be fall. We had thought of
that before during these recent days. We scent it and feel it. I
believe that it's the end of a real summer in our lives that we taste
the sadness of.

Tuesday, March eleventh.

It blows incessantly, cold and clear, — blue days. I have painted
most of to-day, first indoors, and then outdoors commencing a large
picture. Olson has been with us much of the tune. He treasures
every little memento we can give him. In his pocket-book are snap-

210

THE STAR-LIGHTER

TWILIGHT

shots of Kathleen, Clara, and Barbara. He wanted Barbara's curl
that I have — but I couldn't give him that. It looks as if we should all
go to Seward together. This wind is likely to hold until the full moon
passes — and that's still some days off. My trunk is about packed and
what remains can be done in a very few hours.

Speaking to Olson to-night about the possibility of a shipwrecked
man being able to support life on this coast for any length of time he
told of a native boy of Unga, "crazy Simyon," who lived four years
at Nigger Head, a wild part of Unga Island, with no shelter but a hole
in a sand bank, no fire, no weapons or clothes, or tools; a first-hand
story, long, wild, terrible, beginning with a boy's theft of sacrificial
wine, and ending in madness and murder.

Thursday, March thirteenth.

Last night was bitterly cold. I had to get up repeatedly to attend
to the fire. The wind howled and the vapor flew and Rockwell and I
hugged close together beneath the blankets. Day dawned still icy
cold. By noon it began to snow and the afternoon was calm and mild.
And now again the wind blows fiercely from the northeast and we're
freezing cold ! The day was spent in packing. The dismantled cabin
looks forlorn.

Sunday, March sixteenth.

With the full moon has come the most perfect calm. If it holds
through to-morrow we shall leave the island. The past three days
have been busy ones. Bitterly cold weather has prevailed with the
wind unceasingly from the north-almost the coldest days of the
winter. Still I did some painting out-of-doors every day un
day, trying hard to pin upon the canvas a little more of the infinite
splendors of this place. Meanwhile our packing was carried on. We
have made a thoroughly good job of it-I hope! But who can tell

213

WILDERNESS

what strain a trip of so many thousand miles will put upon our crates
and bundles? But for a promise we had made Olson to go with him

DEA/UST M

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MARCH I f-

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to Sunny Bay and Humpback Creek— on the eastern mainland— we'd
have gone this day to Seward.

By noon the most perfect calm had settled upon the water. The
sky was cloudless, and although really it was still very cold the bright

214

TWILIGHT

sun looked like warmth— and that helped a lot. So Olson's little
engine, sputtering, stammering, stopping a great deal, carried us upon
our trip. At Humpback Creek there are falls maybe thirty feet high,
perfect falls tumbling sheer down from a plateau into a deep round
basin. The falls to-day were frozen and spread wide over the face of
the cliff; but it was easy to imagine the grace of their summer form.
We had to hurry from here or be stranded by the rapidly retreating
tide. Next we went to a spot on the bay where Rockwell and I might
have lived had we not met Olson that fair Sunday in August. A little
cabin stood there — open to the weather through doorway and window
but otherwise snug and comfortable. Still, even with that great
wonder, the fall, so near, that spot was not to be compared with our
own Fox Island home. Next we went to Sunny Bay to visit the old
trapper who has been wintering there — the same who stopped last
fall at our island while on his way to camp. The old fellow came to
meet us as we landed, a feeble, emaciated figure. He has been sick
all winter and has done practically no trapping. What a forlorn latter
end for a man! He drags himself about each day, cuts wood, lugs
water, cooks, and when he stoops dizziness overcomes him. He sets
a small circle of traps and drags himself around to tend them. His
whole winter's work is twelve ermine and two mink— thirty or forty
dollars' worth at the most. We offered to bring the old man back with
us and from here on to Seward— but he preferred to stay there a few

days longer.

And now I sit here with our packed household goods about
me, empty walls and a dismantled home. Still we hardly realize
that this beautiful adventure of ours has come to an end. The
enchantment of it has been complete; it has possessed us to the
very last. How long such happiness could hold, such quiet life
continue to fill up the full measure of human desires only a long
experience could teach. The still, deep cup of the wilderness is

215

WILDERNESS

potent with wisdom. Only to have tasted it is to have moved a
lif etime forward to a finer youth.

Tuesday, March eighteenth.

Fox Island is behind us. Last August Olson picked us up as
strangers and towed us to his island; yesterday, after nearly seven
months there with him we climbed again into our dories and crossed
the bay — and now we extend the helping hand to the old man and
tow him and his faltering engine back to Seward. The day dawned
cold and windy. We proceeded however at once to the completion
of our packing, and the loading of the boat.

A little after noon the wind moderating slightly we persuaded
Olson to come with us. My engine working beautifully carried both
boats along till the other little motor could be prevailed upon to start.
In the bay the wind was fresh and the chop high. Half-way across the
wind had risen and the water flew. Olson's engine worked so poorly
that most of the tune I had the full strain of his dory on the line. I
feared the old man's courage would give out as the sea increased, and
I grinned at him reassuringly from tune to time. Finally, however, as
the white-crested waves seemed to rush ever more fiercely upon us
his face grew solemn. He waved to us to turn and run back to the
island. But the tow line was fast in my boat and I neither chose to
turn nor loosen it. Showing our backs to him we ran for the shelter
of Caine's Head — and made it. From there onward we skirted the
cliffs and found it smooth enough. The wind again died out and
we entered Seward over a glassy sea.

And now at last it is over. Fox Island will soon become in our
memories like a dream or vision, a remote experience too wonderful,
for the full liberty we knew there and the deep peace, to be remem-
bered or believed in as a real experience in life. It was for us life as

216

TWILIGHT

it should be, serene and wholesome; love — but no hate, faith without
disillusionment, the absolute for the toiling hands of man and
for his soaring spirit. Olson of the deep experience, strong, brave,
generous and gentle like a child; and his island — like Paradise.
Ah God, — and now the world again !

CEN

217

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