Penelope Ship Yards, July 17.—Oh, how hot it is to-day! And the mosquitoes are rushing business, as if aware time is nearly up with them, I slept on shore last night. We had a small tent and banked it up all around tight, and then made a smudge and shut ourselves in. We killed all the mosquitoes in sight and finally got to bed for a good seven hours' sleep. There is plenty of driftwood along the beaches, and we shall not be obliged to draw on our supply of coal for a good while. Several tons of it is coming on the "Mermaid." The vessel has not yet arrived, neither have several others whose crews warned us before we left San Francisco last spring that we would not reach Kotzebue this year. And here we are a week ahead of them, and one party prospecting up the river already.
July 19.—This morning the "Helen," as we have named our river boat, was towed out to the "Penelope," where the boiler and engines were hoisted on. She is back again now, and all is well save Rivers, who had his Angers smashed.
There must be a thousand people now in the Sound, and more are coming. These first-comers are respectable men, with few exceptions. A drunken white man shot an Indian up near the mission, and now there will be trouble. The Indian law dates far back—"An eye for an eye." A good many accidents are happening. Some men are lost, and so are whole loads of provisions. We are safe; have lost nothing. Birds are numerous now. I went up the slough last night and got three ducks. This noon I served up a hot duck pie. This is the summer home for many birds that spend their winters south. Every morning I hear the plaintive song of the Gambel's sparrows from the bushy thickets on the hillsides, just as we hear them from the hedges at home in winter. Other familiar birds now rearing their broods here are the barn swallow. Savannah sparrow and tree sparrow. Insects are common as the warm weather continues. I caught a bumblebee this morning and bottled him. As fast as the snowdrifts melt, grass and flowers spring up, crowding the snow, so to speak, into more and more limited quarters, and finally replacing it altogether. The brightest and greenest spots are where the snow has the most recently disappeared. This is a beautiful country. Some day when the speedy airship shall make distance trivial, it will be a popular summer resort, except that the water is too icy for the average bather.
CHAPTER IV.
J
JULY 23. Penelope Ship Yards.—The "Helen" is at last ready. Three of the boys have cut up several cords of wood into proper lengths for the boiler.
I cannot help mentioning the flowers again. New kinds appear every day without so much as sending up a leaf in advance. There are dandelions, and purple asters, and cream cups, and bluebells, and big daisies, and buttercups, and tall, blue flowers like our garden hyacinths. There are acres of blue-grass as smooth and green as if newly mown, birds and bumblebees are abundant. I should like to collect more of these, but still have a hungry mob to feed. The boys are working hard at shifting the cargo, and chopping wood and doing other things, and of course are hungry as bears. My work gives me some half-hours which I spend collecting. We have good stores. For supper to-night my menu is baked navy beans—Boston baked beans away up here at Kotzebue Sound!—corn bread, apple sauce, fricasseed salmon eggs, fried salmon, duck stew, tea, etc. It will be appreciated to the last crumb by the Arctic circle.
Miners' Launch.
The days are growing shorter. The sun now sets before eleven at night, leaving only a short semi-twilight. The doctor has just come in from a visit to the mission. He reports ships still arriving, and prospectors having all sorts of luck. Flour is three dollars for fifty pounds. Liquor is being sold to the natives without stint. It is against the law, but what is law without a force to back it? Dr. Sheldon Jackson is expected soon, and he is the man who will not be afraid to hunt out the rascals who are spoiling the natives. I am so nearly related to the American Indians myself that I naturally take sides with these natives. You know I was born on the Kiowa, Comanche and Wichita reservation, when those Indians were savages or nearly so, and I learned to love them before I could speak. Here and now it is the old familiar story of the white man's abuse of the redskins. It makes me indignant. We found these people confiding, generous, helpful, simple-hearted, without a shadow of treachery except as they have learned it from the whites, who are invading their homes and killing them as they will, with little or no excuse. Many of these gold-hunters that I hear of have already done more harm in a few days than the missionaries can make up for in years. I could write the history in detail, but desist. It will never all be written or told. The natives are worked up to the last point of endurance and will surely kill the whites. Whisky is doing its share of havoc, although a few of the faithful mission Indians are trying to keep the others quiet.