<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br/> <small>CHORES</small></SPAN></h2>
<h3>Tuesday, October first.</h3>
<p>
<span>T</span>o-day it rained! We attended first to our fascinating chores, plying
the cross-cut saw as the drizzle fell. Then we went to work as
artists, Rockwell with his water colors and I with my oils. Rockwell
has a number of good drawings of the country here and of the things
that have thrilled him.</p>
<p>Pop! The cork of my jug of new made yeast has just struck the ceiling.
That brew has been a part of this day’s work. Hops, potatoes, flour,
sugar, raisins, and yeast; stewed and strained and bottled. To-day
also was completed and served the first.</p>
<p>Fox Island Corn Souffle</p>
<blockquote>
<p>“Take two cups of samp (whole hominy) and stew for an indefinite
time in salted water (it should cook at least three or four
hours). It should<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_42">[Pg 42]</SPAN></span> boil almost dry. Make of the remainder of the
water and some milk two cups of cream sauce dissolving in it
some cheese. Mix with the corn and pour into a baking dish.
Spread cheese over the top and put into oven to brown.”</p>
</blockquote>
<p>We offer this delicious discovery to the world on the condition only
that “Fox Island Corn Souffle” shall be printed on the menu wherever
it is used.</p>
<p>I made to-day a grandfather’s chair for myself. It is as comfortable
as it is beautiful.</p>
<p>Every day I read in the “History of Irish Literature.” The Deirdre
Saga I read to-day. It must be one of the most beautiful and the most
perfect stories in all the world. So little do we feel ourselves
related, here in this place, to any one time or to any civilization
that at a thought we and our world become whom and what we please.
Rockwell has been a cave dweller hunting the primeval forest with a
stone hatchet and a bow of alder strung with a root. To me it is the
heroic age in Ireland.</p>
<h3>Wednesday, October second.</h3>
<p>Incessant, hard rain. The two artists at their work a good part of the
day, Rockwell making several new drawings in his book of wonderful
animals. We bathed and I washed the accumulated clothes of several
weeks. And to-night Olson came for a long call. He’s a good story
teller and his experiences are without end. And so closes this
day—with the rain still pouring monotonously on the roof.</p>
<h3>Thursday, October third.</h3>
<p>To-day was fair at sunrise, cloudy at nine o’clock, and showery all
the rest. We worked again with the beloved cross-cut saw, setting
ourselves an almost unattainable task—and then surpass<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_45">[Pg 45]</SPAN></span>ing it. And
I cleared the thicket for a better view of the mountain to the south;
and in the afternoon felled another large tree. Stretched canvass for
a while; and painted and drew, and felt the goddess Inspiration
returning to me.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i068" class="border" src="images/i068.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="559" alt="" /> <p class="caption">DAY</p> </div>
<p>Olson, Rockwell, and I, with levers and blocks, turned and emptied the
three boats that the recent rains had almost filled. Already we fear
the frost. The mountains have been capped with snow, all green has
gone from their sides; the dark season is near at hand.</p>
<p>Rockwell is ever sweet, industrious, and happy. He is beautiful after
his bath.</p>
<h3>Friday, October fourth.</h3>
<p>A gloriously lovely day, a cloudless sky and the wind in the north.
That puts life into men! Up at sunrise, we two. Before breakfast the
axe was going, and afterwards we brought down two mighty trees. (The
trees of this part of Alaska are not to be compared with the giants of
the Western States. Two feet is a large diameter.) Then I painted for
a while futilely, the green and wind blown sea, the pink mountains,
snowy peaks, and golden morning sky.</p>
<p>Rockwell and I couldn’t restrain our spirits and had to clamber up the
steep mountain side; up, up we went straight above our clearings; and
soon, in looking back, the bay, the lake, and our neck of land lay
like a map below us. Cliffs and the steep slopes baffled us at times
but we found a way at last to reach the peak of the spur above us.
There it was like a pavilion, a round knoll carpeted with moss, a ring
of slender, clean-trunked trees; and beyond that nothing nearer than
the sea nine hundred feet below. Coming down we ran across a porcupine
toiling up the slope. We played with him a bit and finally<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_46">[Pg 46]</SPAN></span> let him
climb a tree. Olson would have had us bring him home for dinner.
They’re said to taste good.</p>
<p>We cut with the saw a while in the afternoon. Rockwell drew and I made
two more sketches—one a good one. The evening at sundown was more
brilliant even than the day. For such days as this we have come to
Alaska!</p>
<h3>Saturday, October fifth.</h3>
<p>A hard day full of little bits of work. Sawed up a tree <em>alone</em>,—to
punish Rockwell! for not studying. Caulking the east side of the
cabin—the last side. Painted, baked, and built myself an arrangement
out-of-doors to sketch in comfort. I sit on the board with my
palette—a box end—secured before me and my picture above it.
Rockwell took his punishment so to heart that in the afternoon he read
ten pages in his book. All of to-day has been overcast, but with a
clean, refreshing atmosphere. In the account of Anson’s voyage around
the Horn it is remarked that fair weather in those latitudes rarely
lasts. It may be true of the same latitudes north.</p>
<h3>Monday, October seventh.</h3>
<p>Yesterday I wrote nothing in the diary—there was nothing to write,
but that it rained. “Rain like Hell” Olson’s journal doubtless
reads,—and ditto for to-day.</p>
<p>The storm is even harder now. The wind strikes our cabin first from
the west, then north, east, and south. The surface of the cove is
seething under the cross squalls; that is called the “wullys.” A boat
not strongly managed would be whipped round and round. Olson has been
much in to see us, lonely old man! I drop my drawing while he is here
and take to stretching canvass, all the while yarning with him.
Rockwell likes the calls as a diversion. Rock<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_49">[Pg 49]</SPAN></span>well’s good humor and
contentment is without limit. He draws with the deepest interest hours
a day, reads for a time, and plays—talking to himself.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i072" class="border" src="images/i072.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="558" alt="" /> <p class="caption">NIGHT</p> </div>
<p>We have good hearty fights together in which Rockwell attacks me with
all his strength and I hit back with force in self-defense. We have a
good time washing dishes, racing,—the washer, myself, to beat the
dryer. Rockwell falls down onto the floor in the midst of the race in
a fit of laughter. Rockwell’s happiness is not complete until I spank
him. I grab the struggling creature and throw him down, trying to hold
both his hands and feet to have free play in beating him. This I do
with some strength sometimes using a stick of kindling wood. The more
it hurts the better Rockwell likes it—up to a limit that we never
reach.</p>
<p>So much for the day’s play. Of our work mine is mostly over the
drawing table. Both yesterday and to-day I made good drawings; and my
ideas come crowding along fast. Cooking, somehow, is the least
troublesome of all the daily chores. We live, as may be imagined, with
a simplicity that would send a Hoover delegate flying from the door in
dismay. This is our daily fare:</p>
<p class="centered-block">
BREAKFAST<br/>
<br/>
(invariably the same)<br/>
Oatmeal<br/>
Cocoa<br/>
Bread and Peanut Butter<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
DINNER<br/>
<br/>
Beans (one of several kinds and several ways)<br/>
or<br/>
Fox Island Corn Souffle<br/>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_50">[Pg 50]</SPAN></span>or<br/>
Spaghetti<br/>
or<br/>
Peas<br/>
or<br/>
Vegetable stew (barley, carrots, onions, potatoes)<br/>
and<br/>
Potatoes or rice<br/>
and (often)<br/>
Prunes or apricots or apples (dried)<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
SUPPER<br/>
<br/>
(invariably the same)<br/>
Farina<br/>
Corn bread with peanut butter or marmalade<br/>
Tea for father, milk for son<br/>
And sometimes dessert—stewed fruit, chocolate, or, when Olson<br/>
gives it, goat milk junket.<br/></p>
<p>Let us here record that to this date we have had not the least little
sickness,—only glowing health and good spirits.</p>
<h3>Tuesday, October eighth.</h3>
<p>RAIN! But what difference does it make to us. Everyone is in a good
humor. The house is warm and dry; we’ve lots to eat and lots to do.</p>
<p>Olson’s dory was again half full of water so we turned her and the
skiff over. I stretched canvass and primed it and finished Anson’s
“Voyage Around the World” a thrilling book. Late this afternoon it
began to clear; the sun shone and we were presently at work with the
saw—only to be driven in again by the shower. I expect fair weather
to-morrow. But——</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_51">[Pg 51]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i076" class="border" src="images/i076.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="562" alt="" /> <p class="caption">WILDERNESS</p> </div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_53">[Pg 53]</SPAN></span></p>
<h3>Wednesday, October ninth</h3>
<p>Fair weather is still as far away as ever, unless a sharp but cloudy
afternoon and sundown with brilliant light in the western sky spell
change. Olson says the foxes will not eat to-night and that this is
invariably a sign of change to good days—that in bad weather they eat
and in fair they abstain. It poured in the morning and we worked
indoors. After dinner we all moved a lumber pile that stood on the
shore abreast of our cabin to a place nearer Olson’s—this only to
better our view of the water. We sawed wood for a while and piled all
that we have so far cut ready for winter use. There are in all fifty
sections of short stove wood. That is a month and a half’s supply. I
painted towards evening, and made two good sketches.</p>
<p>The nights have grown colder. For the past two days the mountains
across from us, the nearest ones, have been covered with snow
downwards to half their height. The farther ranges have for weeks been
white. They’re beautiful and invite one to go climbing and sliding
over their smooth white snowfields. Close to, one would find
impassable crags and crevasses, a howling wind and bitter cold.
Rockwell to-day finished his second book, “The Cave Dwellers.”</p>
<p>Midnight Bulletin: the stars are out, brilliant in a cloudless sky!</p>
<h3>Thursday, October tenth.</h3>
<p>It’s raining! All day has been overcast, but sharp and clear. It was
for us all a day of hard work. We cleared up the woods between Olson’s
cabin and ours carrying one large pile of brush from our door yard to
the beach and burning another huge one. That was a wild sight as night
came. It had become a great fire of logs burning steadily and lighting
up all the woods around. It is still burning in the pouring rain. We
sawed a little—always more than keeping pace with our consumption of
wood. Rockwell worked almost the whole day and went to bed tired. I
read to him an hour. He loves to hear poetry.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_54">[Pg 54]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>We set an elaborate contrivance to catch a magpie; and were humiliated
by the bird who walked round and round the snare eying it wisely, then
suddenly rushed in only far enough to secure a piece of decoy
bait—and fled. Painted to-day making a good little sketch, but, on my
first trial of the home-made canvas, finding it to need more priming.
Work! work!</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i079" class="border" src="images/i079.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="375" alt="" /> <p class="caption">ONE OF ROCKWELL’S DRAWINGS</p> </div>
<h3>Friday, October eleventh.</h3>
<p>This day we should have been in Seward. It was calm although it rained
from time to time. Olson offered to tow us across to Caine’s Head;
but, the rain coming up as we were about to start in the morning, we
waited till afternoon, started, proceeded half a mile, encountered
engine trouble, and finally ignominiously rowed home, I pulling Olson
and his motor and Rockwell bringing in our own dory. If it had not
been so late we would have kept on.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_55">[Pg 55]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>We have a magpie. I saw one hop into Olson’s shed, quickly ran and
closed the door, and there he was. Now he’s in a box-trap cage set on
a specially constructed shelf on our front gable. He’s a garrulous
creature and bites angrily; but he’s a youngster and we hope to teach
him to say all sorts of pretty things; Olson says they take naturally
to swearing. So Rockwell has at last a pet.</p>
<p>If only it will hold calm! To-night it is fair and starlight—but we
can never be sure of the weather’s constancy. We hold everything in
readiness to start in the morning.</p>
<h3>Saturday, October twelfth.</h3>
<p>A mild and lovely day on our island but in the bay a breeze from the
north that would have made our rowing to Seward difficult. Still we
wait with our things assembled for the trip. We shall go at the very
first good chance. This morning Olson cleared the limbs from the trees
about us to ten or twelve feet from the ground. Only the tall, clean
trunks are now between us and our mountains across the bay. I painted
most of the afternoon. My canvas is still quite impossible—rough and
absorbent. We built a large cage for the magpie he was so restless in
his small one. And now he’s quite contented.</p>
<p>Rockwell said to-day that he would like to live here always. That when
he was grown he’d come here with his many children and me, if I was
not dead, and stay. It is hard to write, it is hard to work, with the
trip to Seward at hand. Olson says it is Sunday. I think he’s right.
Somehow I’ve missed a day.</p>
<h3>Sunday, October thirteenth.</h3>
<p>(I still keep to my chronology until we find out from Seward where we
stand.) A wonderfully beautiful day with a raging northwest<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_56">[Pg 56]</SPAN></span> wind. I
must sometime honor the northwest wind in a great picture as the
embodiment of clean, strong, exuberant life, the joy of every young
thing, bearing energy on its wings and the will to triumph. How I
remember at Monhegan on such a day, when it seemed that every living
thing must emerge from its house or its hole or its nest to breathe
the clean air and exult in it; when men could stand on the hilltops
and look far over the green sea and the distant land and delight in
the infinite detail of the view, discerning distant ships at sea and
remote blue islands, and, over the land, sparkling cities and such
enchanting forests and pastures that the spirit leaped the intervening
miles and with a new delight claimed the whole earth to the farthest
mountains—and beyond; on such a day there crept from his hole an
artist, and, shading his squinting eyes with his hand, saluted the day
with a groan. “How can one paint?” he said, “such sharpness! Here is
no mystery, no beauty.” And he crept back, this fog lover, to wait for
earth’s sick spell to return.</p>
<p>This morning the magpie sang—or recited poetry; he made strange glad
noises in his throat—and that in a cage! We worked, the rest of us,
like mad. At five-thirty Olson, resting at last, said: “Well, you’ve
done a great day’s work.” And after that I painted a sketch, cut and
trimmed three small spruce trees; and then, it being dark, prepared
supper.</p>
<p>But when do we go to Seward? My bag is packed. Olson begins each day
by testing his motor. The wind must moderate in time. We see it pass
our cove driving the water as in a mill-race. To-day it swept the cove
itself.</p>
<p>Rockwell went for a walk in the woods; he has a delightful time on his
rambles, discovering goats’ wool on the bushes, following the paths of
the porcupines to their holes, and to-day finding the porcupine
himself. He always returns with some marvelous discovery or new
enthusiasm over his explorations. He has been practicing writ<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_59">[Pg 59]</SPAN></span>ing
to-day. He says that if he could only write he would put down the
wonderful stories of his dreams. These stories would run into volumes.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i082" class="border" src="images/i082.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="416" alt="" /> <p class="caption">SUNRISE</p> </div>
<h3>Tuesday, October fifteenth.</h3>
<p>Yesterday we left the island. The day was calm though cloudy, and at
times it rained. Olson towed us to Caine’s Head. From there we made
good time Rockwell rowing like a seasoned oarsman, as indeed he has
now a right to be called. We stopped at the camp where we had in
August left our broken-down engine, and brought that away with us, as
well as some turnips and half a dozen heads of beautiful lettuce grown
on that spot.</p>
<p>By night it was raining hard and blowing from the southeast. We spent
the evening at the postmaster’s house, playing, I, on the flute to
Miss Postmaster’s accompaniment. It went splendidly and until midnight
we played Beethoven, Bach, Hayden, Gluck, Tchaikowsky, till it seemed
like old times at home. Then Rockwell with his eyes shut in sleep,
consumed a piece of apricot pie and a glass of milk, and we came home
bringing along two glasses of wild currant preserve. I read my letters
over and then went to bed. But the storm raged by that time and I
couldn’t sleep for worry about my boat. At last I rose and dressed and
went down to the shore. The dory was safely stranded but too low down.
So with great toil I worked her higher up the beach beyond high water.</p>
<p>To-day it has rained incessantly. I have bought a few odd supplies and
registered for the draft.</p>
<p>Above all to-day the engine has resumed its running and we’ll return
to Fox Island under power. I know nothing about an engine but I have
eight miles to learn in before the only hazardous part of the voyage
begins. To-night Rockwell and I spent the evening at the house of a
young man whom we’ve found congenial and who above<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_60">[Pg 60]</SPAN></span> all is a friend of
a young German mechanic for whom I’ve a liking. So the four of us sang
the evening through, seated before a great open fire. The house is of
logs and stands out of the town on the border of the wilderness. There
are spots like this little house and its hospitable hearth that show
even the commercial desert of Seward to have its oases. And now we’re
in our room. Rockwell is asleep in bed. It is past midnight. I am
thinking of dear friends at home, and I bid them affectionately
good-night.</p>
<h3>Thursday, October seventeenth.</h3>
<p>Yesterday in Seward was about as every other day. We spent it between
letter-writing in our hotel room and visiting from store to store. It
poured rain and blew from the southeast. We spent our evening with the
German. We have planned with him to signal back and forth from Seward,
particularly to send me the news of peace. If I can distinguish, with
glasses a high-powered electric light that he will show from a house
on the highest point in the town, then, by means of the Morse code
with which I am furnished and which he knows, I’ll receive messages on
appointed days.</p>
<p>To-night Rockwell and I went a quarter of a mile down our beach to a
point that commands a view up the bay to Seward and lighted a bonfire
there. Boehm, the German, was regarding us, we presume, through a
telescope. On Sunday night, if it is clear, we are to look for his
light. The difficulty will be to distinguish it from others.</p>
<p>We left Seward this morning at 9.45, our dory laden with about one
thousand pounds of freight—including ourselves. The little three and
one half horse-power motor worked splendidly and carried us to the
island in a little over two and a quarter hours. The day was calm, to
begin with, with a rising north wind as we crossed from Caine’s Head.
On the island we found a visitor. There had been two other men but
they were gone to Seward the night before. All had <span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_63">[Pg 63]</SPAN></span>been on Monday
forced by the rough sea to turn back from attempting to go around the
westward cape. The old fellow who is still here told me to-night that
in the twenty years that he had been in Alaska he had never seen such
weather. That’s good news. At Seward the mountains are covered with
snow to within a few hundred feet of the town’s level. I’m tired. This
ends to-day. Incidentally my dates proved to be correct when I reached
Seward.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i086" class="border" src="images/i086.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="487" alt="" /> <p class="caption">ADVENTURE</p> </div>
<p>Oh, I’ve almost forgotten our loss. The poor magpie lay dead on the
floor of his cage. So we found him, killed, I believe, by the storm,
for Olson neglected to cover him. Rockwell, who straight on landing
had run there, wept bitterly but finally found much consolation in
giving him a very decent burial and marking the spot with a wooden
cross.</p>
<h3>Friday, October eighteenth.</h3>
<p>The night is beautiful beyond thought. All the bay is flooded with
moonlight and in that pale glow the snowy mountains appear whiter than
snow itself. The full moon is almost straight above us, and shining
through the tree tops into our clearing makes the old stumps quite
lovely with its quiet light. And the forest around is as black as the
abyss. Although it is nearly ten o’clock Rockwell is still awake. It
is his birthday—by our choice. His one present, a cheap child’s
edition of Wood’s “Natural History,” illustrated, has filled his head
with dreams of his beloved wild animals. I began to-night to teach him
to sing. We tried Brahms’s “Wiegenlied,” with little success, and then
“Schlaf, Kindlein, Schlaf,” which went better. These songs and many
other German songs, all with English words, are in the song book I
bought him. I hope I shall have the patience and the time to succeed
with Rockwell in this.</p>
<p>Three men are now with Olson in his cabin, for the two who were gone
to Seward returned to-day. They are younger men, one of them<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_64">[Pg 64]</SPAN></span>
Emsweiler a well-known guide of this country. I spent an interesting
hour with them this evening. Olson told me to-day that his age is
seventy-one. The smell of fresh bread is in our cabin, for I baked
to-day. Baking, wood-cutting, darning of socks, putting the cabin in
order, and the building of a shelf, these, with the other usual
chores, were the whole day’s work; a profitless day lies on my
conscience. I shall draw a little and then go to bed.</p>
<h3>Saturday, October nineteenth.</h3>
<p>To-day was raw and cloudy, mild and sunny; in the morning windy, in
the afternoon dead calm so that the hills were reflected in the bay.
The men have left, I am glad to say, not that they were in themselves
at all objectionable, but it somehow did violence to the quiet of this
place to have others about. Emsweiler slaughtered one of the goats for
Olson, so there’s now one less of us here. I felled a large tree
to-day and later sharpened the cross-cut saw preparatory to cutting it
up. To-night the sun set in the utmost splendor and left in its wake
blazing, fire-red clouds in a sky of luminous green. Not many more
days shall we see the sun; it sets now close to the southern headland
of our cove.</p>
<p>Rockwell works every day on his wild animal book. To obtain absolutely
new and original names for his strange creatures he has devised an
interesting method. With eyes closed he prints a name or rather a
group of miscellaneous letters. Naturally the result he perceives on
opening his eyes is astonishing.</p>
<h3>Sunday, October twentieth.</h3>
<p>It has been a beautiful, clear, cold, violent northwest day. I’ve
painted on and off all day with wood cutting between. One can’t stop
going in such weather, and out-of-doors you can’t stand still for it
is too icy cold and windy.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_65">[Pg 65]</SPAN></span></p>
<p>Rockwell and I have just now, eight o’clock, returned from down the
beach where we went to look for lights from Seward. But we could
distinguish nothing meant for us. The moon has risen and illuminates
the mountain tops—but we and all our cove are still in the deep
shadow of the night. It is most dramatic; the spruces about us deepen
the shadow to black while above them the stone faces of the mountain
glisten and the sky has the brightness of a kind of day. Olson brought
us goat chops for dinner. We could not have told them from lamb.</p>
<div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG id="i090" class="border" src="images/i090.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="291" alt="" /></div>
<p>This afternoon late a small power boat appeared in the bay attempting
to make its way toward Seward. After some progress the wind forced her
steadily and swiftly back. When we last saw her she seemed to be
trying to make the shelter of our island or one of the outer islands,
the while driving steadily seaward. It’s a wild night to be out in the
bay though doubtless calm at sea. It is such an adventure that we must
be on our guard against. As we look across the bay toward Bear
Glacier, which is hidden by a point of land, we can see the effect of
the north wind sweeping down the glacier, a mist<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_66">[Pg 66]</SPAN></span> driving seaward. It
is nothing less than the fine spray of that wind-swept water.</p>
<h3>Monday, October twenty-first.</h3>
<p>It is so late that I shall write only a little. To-day was again
wonderful, a true golden and blue northwest day. I have painted and
sawed wood, and built myself a splendid six-legged saw horse. Olson
thinks I have already cut my winter’s supply of wood—but it seems to
me far from it. Rockwell has been most of the day at his own animal
book, making some strange and beautiful birds. This morning the ground
was frozen with a hard crust. It did not thaw throughout the day, and
again to-night it is very cold. Winter is at last upon us, the long,
long winter. And the sun retreats day by day farther toward the
mountain. I look to the sun’s going with a kind of dread. We have seen
nothing of the boat that last night was driven to shelter. We believe
the men to be in the other cove of our island.</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_67">[Pg 67]</SPAN></span></p>
<div class="figcenter chapter">
<ANTIMG id="i092" class="border" src="images/i092.jpg" width-obs="600" height-obs="347" alt="" /></div>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />
1 of 2
2 of 2
Previous
Next
Update Required
To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.