I painted little—it was so dark. Somehow on these short days it is difficult to accomplish much. Certain things have to be done by daylight: the chopping of wood, carrying of water from a hundred yards away, lamp filling, and some cooking. I made myself a lot of envelopes to-day and second-coated the canvases of yesterday’s stretching. And now it is bedtime for to-morrow we rise early. Oh! the porcupine returned to-day and was discovered feeding calmly near the cabin. He showed no alarm at Rockwell’s approach, and, when finally after some hours of undisturbed nibbling and napping Rockwell carried him home by his tail and set him down a little distance from his old cage, he ran straight there and interned himself.
Friday, November twenty-second.
Both yesterday and to-day are to be recorded. The porcupine is dead! And yesterday he endeared himself so to us, playing about in the house with the utmost content. The cause of his death we cannot know—unless it was our kindness. Rockwell with Olson’s leather mittens on did carry him about a good deal. Of course they are creatures nocturnal and we had planned to let him have his regular hours for exercise and feeding, Rockwell delighting in the plan that he should stay with him in the woods at night, which I was certainly going to let him try. But it’s over,—and Pet No. 2 has gone to his happy hunting grounds.
It storms, yesterday violently with such wind and rain as seemed incredible. The thin paper roof made the noise deafening so that I could not sleep; and the surf beat and the forest roared; it was a wild night. To-day is better though it pours every half hour. When, when shall we get to Seward! And here before me are displayed all the pretty Christmas presents I have made and that Rockwell has made. Here we sit, these dark short days, working together at the same table just like two professional craftsmen. On these days I cannot paint,—and Olson calls upon us more than he should. Still, we let him sit here in silence and he is wise enough to be quite content. Now it is late. The stove is out and I must go to bed. Two meals only to-day,—another is due me. Oh! I made myself a beautiful die for note paper yesterday and printed it on my envelopes to-day.
THE CABIN WINDOW
Saturday, November twenty-third.
It dawned calm with rain hanging in the air. We hurried with our breakfast in the hope that we should get off; but within an hour at the turn of the tide the northwest wind whipped down from the mountains and the rain fell in torrents. And now at a late hour of the night it still rains although the wind has fallen. We felled a tree to-day and partly cut it up. Although it was dismally dark all the time I managed to paint a little. And I wrote much and drew in black and white. Rockwell has been industrious as usual, drawing at my side. He told me an amusing anecdote of little Kathleen that is worthy to go down here. When in play she wants to change her doll’s name she sends for the pretend doctor, again herself, and he operates on the doll. Cutting a hole in her stomach he stuffs into it a little piece of paper on which he has written the new name. And so the name is changed.
Tried some cottonseed oil of Olson’s to-day that was too bad. A year or two ago he was given a case of spoiled mayonnaise dressing for fox food. Olson saved the oil which had separated from the rest of it. I made dough for doughnuts while I heated the oil to fry ourselves that great treat. Then arose a pinching, rancid odor that almost made me ill but which Rockwell called delicious. However I baked the doughnuts. Still, the oil unheated seemed not bad.