We have just learned of a superstition which is the most cruel of any noted among these strange people. It has roused our civilized horror. A very pretty little girl about thirteen years old, who has been the pet of the camps all winter, and whom the boys have looked upon as a "little sister," has been shut up all by herself in a small snow cave back in the woods. There she is doomed to stay until the snow melts, without speaking to anyone or leaving her cramped position, with no fire and with only such cold food as may be brought to her. And she must live alone in such an igloo for one year, so their statutes decree. This is the law concerning all Kowak-mitt women when they are supposed to have reached marriageable age.
This is but the beginning of the little woman's punishments, which will be many and varied from this date.
The "cabloonas" around this vicinity are very much incensed over this new superstitious cruelty. To demonstrate our convictions in the matter, eight of us armed ourselves with guns, marched over to the village and demanded that old Omechuck and his wife, Atungena, Kalhak's parents, take the child back into their igloo. The man laid all the blame on the mother and grand-mother (as it was in the beginning), and we had a big wrangle. We informed them that if they did not end this and other cruelties, and liberate the girl by to-morrow noon, we would come over in a great body and tear down the cave and take her away. They were pretty well frightened. It gave us lots of fun, though we didn't change our austere countenances. We meant what we said. Uncle Jimmy headed the expedition. He had a great big knife belted on, and we all presented a dangerous front. What if the Eskimos had taken it seriously and mobbed us? Mobbing is not their tendency. They are gentle in spite of other things, and were actually in fear of our threats. We are not sure of the full extent of our influence, but we stirred them up and they may conclude that this "missionary association" of gold-hunters is not here for nothing. Later the girl was released.
May 14, Sunday.—Spring is breaking the winter's reign at last. The snow has almost disappeared from the sand-dunes and is softening everywhere. Little pools of water are appearing in the low places. A gentle rain is falling, the first since last September—eight months. The days of slush and water are upon us, but oh, such exciting days for me! The first geese and gulls have arrived, very shy and very few, and I saw two swans. They stay about the muddy places across the river. I got a fairly good shot at a goose, but missed it. Everyone is after the poor geese and lots of rifle balls are wasted, with never a goose as yet. I shot a solitary glaucus-winged gull sitting on the ice, with a thirty-calibre Winchester rifle at 143 yards range. The bullet went straight through the neck, cutting a very clean way, and the skin made a beautiful specimen. Yesterday was my red-letter day. I found, almost by accident, a jay's nest and eggs, the thing I have been looking for so constantly for three months. I also found a fine set of hawk owls—six eggs, three newly-hatched young and both parents. The nest was in a hole in a rotten spruce stub about twelve feet above the snow. When I tapped on the tree the male, which was sitting, left the nest and flew away about a hundred feet, turned and made for my head as straight and swift as an arrow, planting himself full force, and drawing blood from three claw marks in my scalp. My hat was knocked about twelve feet and the crown torn out. All this the owl did without stopping in its swoop. I recovered myself just in time to receive a second charge and had to dodge clear to the ground. When the courageous defender of home and country turned for its third attack a charge of No. 10 met it, and it died an honorable death, deserving to be ranked among heroes. I have the entire set preserved.
I have a flock of white-winged crossbills spotted in a spruce forest ten miles away, which I expect will nest in a couple of weeks, but I doubt if I can reach the place, now the snow is going. I wore snowshoes nest-hunting yesterday, but probably for the last time this year. It is far easier snowshoeing over the snowy tundras than walking through the peat and water and "nigger heads" after the snow is gone.
The Prisoner We Rescued.
May 21, Sunday.—Uncle Jimmy and Dr. Coffin still keep up the Sunday services. Three of the Iowa men and half a dozen Eskimos have come in. As I have just finished a bird I thought it a good idea to desist until after church, on Uncle Jimmy's account. So, until singing begins, I will have a little time to write. I cannot afford to waste a second these days. Most of the snow is gone. All the ponds and sloughs are full of water and the river has risen fully eight feet.
All the slush ice has gone, but the thick winter ice is on top and extends unbroken down the middle of the river. The Eskimos say that if the warm weather and high water continue this ice will break up and float away very soon. And then it would be "finis" to bird collecting, for the steamers would whistle and we would all have to pack up and start. I am just living in dread of the "Helen." I would not cry should she spring a leak or otherwise disable herself, so that she would be laid up until the last of June. This is a wicked thought and I repent of it. Solitary sandpipers and Baird's sandpipers are here, and I know they will nest by the middle of June. Small birds are beginning to arrive. I heard the beautiful song of the fox sparrow for the first time this morning, also the tree sparrows and varied thrush. I saw a single robin yesterday with its familiar call note. We have goose dinners galore, but the geese are lean and tough, far from such eating as they were in the fall. We prefer duck and ptarmigan. The doctor has made some very nice cranberry jelly from the berries which have been stored on the vines under the snow all winter. The native women and children picked over two gallons yesterday, which they brought to us.
