Last night was calm until four o’clock in the morning. Then the wind again struck in and the trees roared and the roof creaked and groaned. To-day it was calmer. We began by felling a tall spruce more than two feet in diameter. It lies now near the cabin a great screen of evergreen. Its wood should last us many weeks. I painted out-of-doors on two pictures. That’s bitterly cold work—to crouch down in the snow; through bent knees the blood goes slowly, feet are numbed, fingers stiffen. But then the warm cabin is near....
This minute I’ve returned from splitting wood out in the moonlight. On days when painting goes with spirit the chores are left undone.
If only it were possible to put down faithfully all of Olson’s stories! Last night he told of his return to San Francisco from the Yukon thirty years ago, how the little band of weather-beaten, crippled miners appeared on their return to civilization. Olson was on crutches from scurvy, his beard and hair were of a year’s growth; all were in their working clothes, all bearded, brown, free spirited. And their wealth they carried on them in bags, gold, some to $7000 worth. As Olson tells it you yourself live in that day. You hear the German landlady of the “Chicago Hotel” in San Francisco, a motherly woman who put all the grub on the table at once so you could help yourself, say, “You boys have some of you been in Alaska for years and I know about how you’ve lived. Now that you’re back you must have a hankering for some things. Tell me whatever you want and I’ll get it for you.” And up spoke one big fellow, “I remember how my mother used to have cabbage. I want you to get me one big head and cook it and let me have it all to myself!”
That night they went to the music halls in their miners’ clothes all as they were, and drank gallons of beer; and from the boxes and the balconies the girls all clamored to be asked to join them—who were such free spenders. Two days later they were paid in coin for their gold—by the mint—and all went to the tailors and got them fine suits of clothes.... And so it continues. And he told of Custer’s massacre. And, to-night of the sagacity of horses in leading a trapper back to the traps he’d set and maybe lost. When a horse swims with you across a stream guide him with your hand on his neck, but pull not ever so little on the line or he’ll rear backwards in the water and likely drown himself and you.
Saturday, December fourteenth.
A pretty useless day. No work accomplished but the daily chores. What is there to say of such a day. Olson brought over his letter to Kathleen to-night and read it to us. It’s just like him to be really himself even at letter writing. The letter is full of nice humor. “She’ll think what kind of an old fool is that,” he said, “but what do I care. I’ll just say whatever I feel like saying.” And he always does. In a mild way he lives Blake’s proverb, “Always speak the truth and base men will avoid you.” Some people have found Olson very rough and ill-mannered.
FOREBODING
Made bread to-night and stamped about seventy-five envelopes with my device. To-night it is mild and overcast. A light snow has begun to fall. So far this winter the fall of snow has been extremely light. It should bank up almost to the cabin’s eaves.... My bed awaits me. Good-night.