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 entered from the westward, the Curaçao, 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.
PRISON BARS
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 in 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!