C
CAMP PENELOPE, Jan. 10, 1899.—Yesterday morning Uncle S. and Samms started on up the river with their dog sleds and mail. C. C. and Cox went with them. They hope to reach the Upper Penelope Camp and learn as much as they can of the outlook and the wish of the men as to segregation in the spring. They will have no easy trip of it, but C. C. seems to covet experience in winter traveling, and I think he will be the recipient of it this time.
When Cox and I got in with the mail, all the neighbors crowded into our cabin and there was general excitement until the sacks were gone through and the fate of each determined. Nearly everyone got letters. The latest news was dated August 22, and we had full accounts as to the probable closing of the war. I received six letters. Down at Kotzebue Camp I opened only one of these, the one of the latest date, and found it so bright and jolly that my spirits were at the highest pitch all the way home. Moral: Folks at home, write cheery letters to absent ones wherever they may be. The snow may be deep, and the dogs may be mad, and the trail rough.
We are beginning to talk about "going home." and of the probability of our cold welcome among our town's folk, who will possibly ridicule us as "fake gold-hunters," "prodigal sons," and all that. I was reading an article in one of the magazines last night, proving that an ambitious poor man nowadays has far more chances for success in any line than a rich one, and that "extreme poverty does not debar a man otherwise endowed, from entrance into the best society in the land." This in America of course. So we are saying in concert, while the latest news of gold fades into vapor, "Poverty is a blessing." It's a comfort to look at it in that light anyway. But it does not help some of our boys over the blues. Several put all they had into this venture, and on their return are destined to start all over again at day's work. I must own that I am myself the victim of some reluctance to return with empty gold-pan, and the old story of putting "gold into the fire and behold there came forth this calf" comes to me. We may have sufficient supplies to keep us in Alaska another year.
Uncle S. is one man that is making a success. He charges fifty cents for each letter or package he brings up the river. My bill would have been six dollars at that rate, but of course my trip down more than met that. The doctor got twenty-four letters and many papers. Don't know whether he has settled his bill or not. Mrs. Samms is with us until the return of Mr. Samms, which will be not less than three weeks if the weather is good. It seems odd to have a lady in the cabin, but she is very agreeable and we like her company. We modify our usual reckless behavior and serve her in every possible way.
She is teaching a class of children at the mission cabin. Mr. Samms is on an errand to get a census of native population and to note the condition of the Kowak Eskimos. There is likely to be a famine among them before spring, as they have spent too much time in watching the whites this year, neglecting to fish and hunt at the season. There is now little game in the country, and by next winter they will be destitute in clothing as well as food unless they receive help from outside.
Jan. 11, 6 a. m.—The doctor and I have just got out of bed, hours before the usual time of rising. We think we can write better, or read, early in the morning before everybody is up and story-telling and making noises in the room. When we are all active it is difficult to think.
The north wind is blowing a gale again, and its steady roar through the spruces outside, accompanied by the monotonous whisper or undertone whistling down the stovepipe, gives one a lonesome, dreary feeling. I almost shivered just now all on account of the sounds, although there is a blazing fire in the heater and the whole cabin is warm and comfortable.
Some of Mrs. Samms' Pupils.