We visited the Indian village of Ketchikan. The Episcopalians have a mission at this place. The teacher is an able young woman. A young lady, a handsome half-breed Indian girl, came upon the wharf to meet someone who came on the boat. Her carriage, language and manner were those of a lady. We landed some freight at this point. The freight agent was a half-breed Indian, quite good looking and a gentleman.
New Metlakahtla is a most attractive village on the Annette Islands.
The Metlakahtlans are the most progressive race in Alaska. Mr. Duncan visited the United States in 1887, enlisting aid for the Indians. Henry Ward Beecher and Phillips Brooks became champions of his cause.
The government at Washington assured Mr. Duncan that his people would be protected in any lands which they might select in Alaska.
In the spring of 1887 four hundred Metlakahtlans crossed to the Annette Islands.
These enterprising people print their own newspaper. They have a photographer. The silversmiths, woodcarvers and bark weavers do a large business on tourist days.
The salmon cannery ships from six to eight thousand cases a year. There is a government school and a boarding school for girls. On steamer days the Indian band plays on a platform built on the tall stump of a cedar.
These people, all Christians, have all subscribed and faithfully live up to a code of rules, called the Declaration of Residents.
The inhabitants are greatly disturbed over the discovery of gold on these islands. The white man discovered the gold and now he wants the islands. Will the government keep faith with the Metlakahtlans?
Now let me tell the boys and girls what our vessel has down in her hold. Our boat, The Queen, is three hundred and fifty feet long and draws twenty-five feet of water, so you see she has a big hold down below her decks. There are twenty big steers going to Juneau to be made into beef; two big gray horses going to Dawson to work about the mines in the Klondike and when winter comes to be killed and dried for meat for dogs, as there will be no feed for the horses in the Klondike when winter sets in and the grass dies. A sad fate. They are gentle horses, poking their noses into your hand as you pass for an apple, peach or bit of grain. There are five hundred chickens down there, too, going to different points in Alaska. Two little Esquimaux pups, worth one hundred dollars each, are also here. Their mother, which was killed by the electric cars at Seattle the day before we sailed, cost four hundred dollars. The little curly-haired fellows play and tumble about very much like kittens, then suddenly they remember their mother and set up such a pitiful wail.