Greener than spruce

Greener than Spruce
By Herbert Farris
Author of “Plenty Grub an’ Plenty Gold,” etc.
“Maybe greener men have hit Alasky—but I doubt it!”
The speaker, a rheumy-eyed, old veteran of the trails, spoke thus disparagingly of young Harris Benton. The old-timer’s perpetual “sun-grin” expanded visibly as he watched Benton’s parka-clad figure disappear around a bend in the river trail.
“Wonder how long he’ll last,” the old fellow speculated, turning to the group on the river bank. “I’ll bet I’ve showed him a dozen times how to tie his snowshoes to his feet, an’ I’ve told him little things about pitchin’ his tent and makin’ camp, till I’m black in the face. It’ll be three-four weeks yet before mushin’ll be any good, but I’ve got a right good notion to load up the old Yukon sled an’ take out after that young chechahco.”
“An’ why?”
The old-timer had paused for that query. The question certainly gave pith and point to the clever thing on the tip of his tongue. The remark would have lost its savor in the telling; the retort, however, was pungent.
“An’ why?” he repeated. “I’ll tell you for why. I’ve been snow-blind twice, so my eyes ain’t what they used to be. Nowadays, when I ain’t wearin’ snow glasses—an’ blast the dang things, I hate ’em!— I’ve got to keep my eyes clamped on the spruce.
“Spruce is dang restful to the eyes. It’s restful because it’s green, but to keep on lookin’ at it, a man’s got to twist his head from one side the river to the other, an’ there’s times when I think I’m li’ble to twist my head plum off—like a screech owl. Now, instead of takin’ all that trouble, I could start out an’ foller after this young Benton. Instead of lookin’ at the spruce then, I could keep my eyes fastened straight ahead on him . He’s greener than any spruce that ever growed.”
If young Harris Benton could have heard this sarcastic speech, he would have been rudely made aware of the withering contempt in which he was held by the general run of Alaskans with whom he had come in contact. Had he been aware of the feeling which existed, he would not have been offended in the least; he would have been amused. He was green but, unlike many greenhorns, he realized the fact and was anxious to learn. Moreover, he was willing to accept the hard knocks—a part of the curriculum of Alaska’s trail school—and come up smiling. For Harris Benton, although he was probably the greenest chechahco in the North, had not been raised a pet.