CHAPTER XVI.
F
FEB. 8.—Mr. and Mrs. Samms left for the Mission yesterday. Harry Reynolds goes with them, and will either stay there or go down to the "Penelope." That lessens our number, but we will still have eleven in the house. C. C. talks of following them later. There will be no more prospecting done by this company this year, except by myself, and that for birds. I got a pair of muckluks in trade, and am now bartering for a pair of snowshoes. The snow is eighteen inches deep and very light and dry. I shot four redpolls near the house this morning. I would like to see it sixty-five degrees below zero just for the experience of it. I have already shot ptarmigan at forty-four degrees below, and could have stood it much colder without wind.
Feb. 11.—It must be admitted that life is getting a little humdrum. There is nothing in particular to write about unless one has a poetic turn. Poetry doesn't come to any of us any more. The poetry is wearing off from the L. B. & A. M. & T. Co.
If I were a Mark Twain, with humor to relate the doings of people about me, I could write a few pages of good reading. Resources are unlimited to the right person applying. The story of our "Fool's Errand" into this out-of-the-way country, if written by an expert, would be as rich a theme as one could desire. But alas! I am only a bird-hunter by nature, and a gold-hunter on the Kowak by grace of my father, and am unable to depict the fortunes of this crowd in an acceptable manner. There is unrest everywhere. All admit that they have been duped. Some are making the best of circumstances, but others are taking it to heart in a pitiful degree. Although for the most part good-natured, chagrin is the rule. There are many pathetic tales half hinted at. Men left families to live as best they might, in vain hope, in narrowed circumstances at home, selling or mortgaging all they possessed to outfit themselves, confidently expecting to return with quickly-acquired wealth. About twenty-five men have lost their lives so far from drowning, freezing or scurvy, several of whom we know to have dependent families at home. It is worse than war, for there is no pension. And then the ridiculousness of this mad rush! How a company of excited men followed an Eskimo three days across the tundras and over the mountains, only to be shown a little brook with yellow mica glistening in the sandy bed! How another party had a "sure thing," and several others got wind of it and followed, scarcely giving themselves time to sleep, until they all reached the same spot together in a mood to fight, but finally laughed at themselves as if provoked by a humorous ice demon. Several parties paid an old sailor at San Francisco forty dollars each for a "tip" as to the exact spot where gold had been dug out, "fifteen thousand dollars in two hours with a jack-knife"! They all met at the supposed place. We have had the laugh on them many times, though I fail to see the exact grounds. The ludicrous sometimes changes to the doleful even while I am laughing.
"We paid $600 apiece for our tip," someone says. Several have owned up that they followed the "Penelope" crowd into this country believing that we had "a sure thing;" and the missionaries told us that it has been rumored that nearly live hundred men came into the Sound last summer following our "scent." I cannot see anything "funny" about it, though some do.
Feb. 12.—This morning after breakfast I amused myself about an hour before service by paying strict attention to affairs about me in the cabin. It is astonishing how entertaining the meaningless, helter-skelter, careless conversation can be. And yet there are points. We are all doing something, if only yawning or looking out of the frosty window.
C. C. is clipping Cox's whiskers and makes inaudible remarks. Rivers is shaving, just like any Christian of a Sunday morning. Miller, Alec, Clyde, Casey, Brownie and the doctor are reading. I am writing at the table. Uncle Jimmy is standing by the stove with his hands in his pockets, facing the window and whistling. A pail of water is set into the top of the heating stove and sizzles in varying tones. All is quiet for a while, when positions are changed. Ablutions are going on behind closed canvas. Uncle Jimmy sits down on a bench and pulls his beard in a slow, rhythmical motion. He is abstracted. Cox tills a stew-pail with water, pieces of ice striking the sides with a tinkling sound, and puts it on the cook stove. Uncle Jimmy gets his Bible and sits down at the table, spending several moments in wiping his spectacles. He reads a verse and pushes his specs high up on his forehead, rests his head on his hand and dozes off. Casey and Cox exchange some words about a "shirt" that has shrunken in washing. Rivers takes the thermometer and goes outdoors. Returns, saying that it is "thirty below." and bids me put that in my diary. Clyde brings his camera outfit to the window and explains what the several pictures represent. Cox asks me to "blow out the lamp if I don't need it," which I do. Cox gets a book and sits down near the window. He lights his big corn-cob and, after putting several dense clouds of smoke, asks, "Will I disturb you smoking. Uncle Jimmy?" The latter says, "Oh, no; oh, no!" Rivers gets "Hamlet" and sits down to the table to read. C. C. is in his bed-room humming a tune. Ceases humming and whistles; is again humming; whistles; sings. The doctor gets up, saying. "Uncle Jimmy. I didn't know I took your Bible." Goes into bed-room and puts on hood and mittens. Says he is "going up to see Bentz." And the morning passes, while I see and hear much more of no greater importance than what I have recorded. Half-past eleven the natives and "cabloonas" begin to arrive for church. C. C. speaks, and as usual we all listen.
