I know nothing in all life more beautiful than the perfect belief of Rockwell in his Paradise here. Unopposed, his romance has kindled every object on the homestead; so that now for hours he can steal about in the forest, on the beach, along the lake,—in absolute contentment, for it is wonderland itself. The “King’s road,” the “Giant’s path” where stand the gummy “ten-pound butter tree” and all the giants with whom Sir Lancelot must joust, the magpie’s grave marked with a cross, the otter’s cave, the marvelous frozen stream; those strange wild people, the Treaps, who visit these shores occasionally to hunt the white man for his skin as the white man has hunted their dear animals; rain-bears and wild-cat-eaters—appalling animals that inhabit the dark woods but are good friends to Rockwell. Every log and rotten stump, the gnarled trees, with or without “butter,” every mound and path, the rocks, the streams, each is a being in itself; and with those most living goats, and the brilliant magpies, the pretty, little, dingy sparrows, the glorious and virtuous porcupines, the black, black crows, the great and noble eagle, the rare spider and the rarer fly, and the wonderful, strong, sleek otters that leap in sport through the snow and coast down-hill, they make a world of romance that has thrilled one little boy to the very bottom of his soul. To live here, to accumulate about him more and more animals and shelter them from harm, to live forever or, if he must, grow old, and very old; here marry—not a Seward girl but one more beautiful—or an Indian!—here raise a great family—and here die. That now is the ideal of little Rockwell. And if we, his family, all of us, would count we must come here to him where with patriarchal magnificence and dignity he will care for us.
RUNNING WATER
Thursday, February twentieth.
All day out-of-doors, both of us. In the morning Rockwell and I journeyed around the point between the two coves of the island. It’s a rocky promontory with a great jumble of bowlders at its base that one must scramble over. These are generally wet and slippery and not much fun. However we went well around and I set up my canvas and painted while Rockwell crawled about in caves and crevasses playing some sort of wild beast. The wind rose as I finished and made it difficult to convey my wet canvas without damaging it. And in the afternoon again I painted on two pictures out-of-doors. That’s to be my work now till the time I go. To-morrow if the day is right we start for Seward. Our boat is dug out of the snow, our goods are packed, the engine chafes at the throttle. I am tired to-night and it is bedtime.
Sunday, February twenty-third.
Friday was calm. We left the island at about eleven—after the usual hours fussing with the engine. At Hogg’s camp we called in for something to bale with, for the boat, being leaky, had taken in a lot of water. No one at home—so I stole a bowl from the shed and we proceeded. By then the sun shone upon us and we could observe, what we later confirmed at Seward, that the sun shines at the head of the bay while the island, our island, is shrouded in clouds. Quite different conditions prevail in the two localities. With us it is warmer and much wetter. The recorded rainfall for Seward, that some time ago seemed incredibly small, does not fit Fox Island at all. Olson’s records for last summer show prevailing rainy weather—and Seward rejoiced in unprecedented sunshine! And during these three days in Seward now, days wonderfully fair, thick clouds have always been over Fox Island. And even the wind blows there when Seward’s waters are calm.
And so on Friday we reached Seward with flying colors, stowed our boat up high, put the engine into Olson’s cabin, and walked again the streets of civilization. Here everyone is friendly. The first night Rockwell dined out at one house and slept at another with a lot of children. What must they have thought of his underclothes! I went supperless—writing letters instead. And then flute music at the postmaster’s. Next day very early the steamer came and the day passed for me in the wild excitement of receiving mail.
Wednesday, February twenty-sixth.
Yesterday we came home! We left Seward with only a light load aboard. It blew briskly in the bay from the north. Before we reached Caine’s Head there was a splendid, white-crested chop racing along with us. Midway across it was about all the engine could have stood. The propeller is not set at enough depth in our boat and in yesterday’s sea it was most of the time out of water, racing at a furious pace. Then the boat would naturally lose steerage way and we’d swing far out of our course. But it was great sport. Into it we could have made no headway; before it nothing could stop us. And the engine kept right on going!—only as usual it was continually falling apart. On Friday the flywheel came loose six times, the muffler four, and the valve spring fell off and stayed off. Coming back all went well till we were in the roughest sea; then the muffler came loose. Not wanting to stop the engine in that sea I spent half the time on my knees holding the tiller in one hand and the muffler nut with a pair of pliers in the other. Rockwell bailed most of the time. The boat leaks like a sieve.