Chapter I

How well I remember the day when my husband, an officer in the French army, was nominated for service in Algeria! I was still plunged in slumber when I was suddenly aroused by a diabolical yell (if you ask my husband he will hotly deny this, but men can never be believed). I sat up, thinking the end of the world had come, and saw my husband frantically waving a white paper and shouting: “Named in Algeria--1st Regiment of Spahis! With a wife and children it’s impossible! Why am I married?”

“Well!” I said, still half asleep, but seizing the sense of the remark that referred to me. “_You_ ought to know why you are married. What’s the matter with you? Do you want a divorce?”

“Don’t be frivolous; it is a serious matter,” he groaned, holding out the paper for my inspection. “Do you understand? I am nominated to an African regiment, the 1st Spahis, and in a fortnight I must be _there_.”

“Do you mean that we--you and I--are going out to North Africa?” I cried. “Really? Hip, hip, hurrah!”

“Are you mad?” he demanded, in astonishment.

“Yes; mad with joy,” I replied. “I’m tired to death of poky French garrison towns. We’ll go out to the sun and be stewed, have our throats cut by Arabs, and enjoy ourselves down to the ground.”

“My dear girl,” said my husband, with as much calmness as he could muster, “we are ordered to a post in the mountains, Teniet-el-Haad. In all probability you will get no servants to go with you, and there may not even be a fit house to live in. A lady _cannot_ go there!”

“An English one can--_we_ follow our husbands,” I said, stoutly.

“I shall have to go alone,” he said, quietly, “unless I can find some fellow to exchange.”

“You can do as you like,” I answered, loftily, “but I am going to join!”

And so I did, in his company and that of my three children.

I was sadly disappointed in Algiers; it appeared to my jaundiced eyes quite an ordinary town. Its arcades, filled with elegant Parisian-looking women and top-hatted, frock-coated men straight from the Champs Elysées and Bois de Boulogne, gave me quite a shock. However, I consoled myself with the thought that our station was far away up in the wild mountains of the Tell, where real live Arabs, hyenas, jackals, and a panther here and there would advantageously replace these civilized banalities.

Our journey from Algiers to Affreville was just like any other railway journey. At the last-named town we got out, had a nice breakfast at the station buffet, and at twelve got into the coupé of a diligence so dilapidated and prehistoric in appearance that my heart sank within me; but that was only the beginning. This vehicle was drawn by eight skinny white horses, each of whom seemed to have his own private opinion as to the manner of drawing the vehicle--and all their opinions seemed to differ vastly from that of the driver, whose face wore an “I give it up” sort of expression. So bored was the good man by things in general that during the journey he indulged in sundry snoozes. This was bearable whilst the road was wide and on the flat, but when it wound like a narrow white ribbon round and round the mountains, and one gazed up on the left at a grey wall of rock, and on the right down fathomless precipices, we glanced at our slumbering Jehu and held on by the skin of our teeth, whilst the skinny horses dashed headlong round narrow corners and a wheel hung for an instant over bottomless space. This nightmare ride lasted for eight hours, during which time I tried hard to feel that I was enjoying myself, despite the cramp in my legs and the stiffness of my neck--necessarily slightly bent on account of the lowness of the roof. Finally we arrived at Teniet-el-Haad, which appeared to be composed of one narrow street hemmed in abruptly on either side by the mountains. Thankfully we crawled out of the diligence and walked up the hill to the “bordj,” or fort, where a flat had been provided for us by the Government. So this was to be my home! I gazed eagerly round at the small rooms with their bare, whitewashed walls, and then--when I had a box to sit on--I sat down and cried.

“Nice place, Algeria, isn’t it?” mildly remarked my husband. I felt at that moment as though I could have throttled him cheerfully.

_From a Photograph._]

Truly my position was not enviable. Accustomed hitherto to be waited on hand and foot, I now found myself without a servant of any kind, save my husband’s orderly. I was in a strange country, and was expected to do everything for myself. However, repining would not help matters, so I set to work to teach the orderly the rudiments of the culinary art, he knowing nothing more about it than--than I did. What hard days those were, to be sure! I wonder my husband survived them. My fried potatoes fell into greasy bits instead of frying, my scrambled eggs flew up the chimney, my omelettes were sickening messes, and the meat either would not cook at all or exaggerated the matter and turned into coal. Then there was the washing and ironing. I never thought--until I essayed the work--that there was much difficulty about it; it seemed quite easy. You took soiled things off, put them in water and soaped them; then you wrung them out, ironed them, and there you were. Our linen, however, grew greyer and greyer, yellower and yellower, and I became pensive. “What _do_ you think is wrong with it?” I asked the orderly, who had become our washerman, there being no other.

“Well, madam,” he said, diffidently, “I think it wants sort of boiling gently with something or other. I remember my mother----”

“Oh, what did your mother do?” I asked, eagerly.

“Well, she washed it first, and then put it in a barrel with a hole in the bottom and--and boiled it, I think. Leastways, it was somehow all right after.”

“But you can’t boil in a barrel; it would catch fire,” I objected. “And why a hole? Surely the water would run out?”

He looked shy and unhappy.

“Well, there may be something wrong about the boiling in the wooden barrel. I misremember that, but”--a slow grin spread over his face--“I’m sure about the hole, because I used to stop it up, and mother was awfully wild.”

After some weeks, however, the orderly began to see light, and, helped by an Arab boy, managed these tiresome domestic matters well enough to allow of my going out riding and seeing a little of the country.

The mountains, burnt yellow by the hot summer sun when I first saw them, were growing rapidly green after a few hours’ torrential rain. In the forest all the spring flowers sprang to life again, flowering hastily on tiny short stems as though fearing they would not find time before being cut off by the winter frosts. A carpet of blue and white iris and crocus spread out under the shade of the mighty cedars, together with all sorts of bright creeping plants. Orchids and narcissi peeped up from every damp corner, and in the crevices of the rocks wild carnations and geraniums made a dash of bright colour.

One day whilst out mushrooming I felt rather thirsty, and proposed to my husband to go and ask for some goats’ milk at a tent I saw peeping through the underwood higher up. He acceded, and, talking and picking flowers, we wandered up slowly. Never in my life have I seen so dilapidated a tent. It had been mended again and again with rags so various in shape and colour that little of the original _felidga_ was left. Around it was the traditional artificial hedge of jujube trees, whose thick, fine, long thorns protected the inmates from thieves and wild beasts. A sad-looking donkey and a few goats grazed around, while a particularly savage dog began barking violently and straining at a very rotten cord at our approach. Thin and mangy, he looked as if he could thoroughly enjoy a steak out of my husband’s substantial calves, but he soon retired, with more haste than dignity, when my better half stooped to pick up a stone. All Kabyle dogs have a settled opinion about stones, and the gesture is sufficient for them.

The noise brought out the owner of the tent, and he stood gazing majestically at us, draped in dirty white rags. A woman followed him. Her thin, bony, brown face, scraggy neck and shoulders, skinny arms and legs might have been those of an old woman, yet something told me that she was young, but worn out by over-work and under-feeding. Such sights are often seen and fill one with pity. Behind her came five little children, all, except the two girls--who each modestly wore a red handkerchief on their curly heads, and a necklet of wooden beads--clothed in sunbeams.

My husband asked if we could have some milk. With a lordly gesture the Arab signed to the woman, who slowly caught a goat by its hind leg and began milking it into a broken yet clean-looking earthen bowl. Nevertheless, I brought out my little picnic mug and made her milk into that.

My husband offered ten sous to the Arab, but he turned away disdainfully. “He who drinks at my tent is welcome,” he said. “He is God’s guest, and between him and me no money can pass.”

And yet how the want of money showed itself on every side!

I made up for it to myself by slipping a few pennies into the brown little hands of the children, who had finally decided that I was not likely to bite and had approached me. Delighted, they ran with them to their mother, who seized them feverishly, with a terrified side-look at her husband. Filled with pity, I slipped a silver piece into her lean hand--rather too well rewarded by the ardent kisses she showered on my hands, my shoulders, and the edge of my dress. I then asked the Arab to show me the interior of his tent. He seemed pleased at my demand, but I regretted it deeply when I beheld the dirtiness of it. Dirt was the principal furniture, together with several wooden spoons, an “aguesseau” for rolling the semolina into cous-cous, a “kess-kess” for cooking it by vapour, and a heap of terrible-looking rags. On this heap lay an indistinct form, from which came slow, painful gasps--the gasps of a departing life. Shuddering, I bent down and saw a venerable woman--so small, so wizened, so extraordinarily thin that I could not imagine how there was any life in her. She opened her eyes and turned them slowly on the Arab; and I read pitiful supplication, mingled with bitter reproach, in their cavernous depths.

The Arab looked down gloomily, and a wave of emotion swept over his hitherto impassive face.

“What is the matter with her?” I asked.

“She has not eaten for two days,” he answered.

“But why? Is she ill? Give her some milk at once. At once, do you hear?”

I felt angry at the calmness of these people in the presence of this dying woman.

“She is dying,” he said, obstinately.

“But you are doing nothing to save her,” I cried.

My husband pulled my sleeve.

“Come, come, dear,” he whispered, “you are giving yourself useless pain.”

“But I will make him give this old woman something,” I persisted. “She is his mother, perhaps, and is trying to ask him for food with all her strength. Give her some milk,” I cried.

The man mumbled something; I understood that he was telling me she was old, worn out, and that it was waste to feed her.

Overwhelmed with horror, I gasped: “Then you are letting her die--on purpose! She--she is dying because you have let her starve to death?”

He bowed his head. Then, as if he felt that some explanation was due to the _roumia_ who was his guest, he added, in a low voice, “Her children will have her share. They want it.”

I seized my husband’s arm. “Come--come away from this horror,” I cried; and quickly we ran down the hill to where the fragrant narcissi grew, and there I flung myself on the ground and sobbed.

Presently the sweet, balmy air was filled with sharp shrieks and yells--the cries of mourning of the Arab women as they tear their faces with their nails. And I knew that the poor old woman had passed away, and that those who had starved her to death were now bemoaning her loss, and consoling themselves by saying, “_In cha Allah!_” (“It is the will of God”).

I went home a wiser and a sadder woman; I have never forgotten the horror of the incident.

From my window in the fort I had a beautiful view. In front was the range of mountains along which the cedar forest runs. I could just discern the rock where General M----’s first lion tried to get at him, and the small, scrubby tree up which the gallant General swarmed just in time. Lions are very rare nowadays in these parts, though a forester signalled the passage of one on the other side of the forest during my stay. On the left of my window I could see the bee-hive habitations of a race of negroes who live on the hill rising up immediately behind the chief street of Teniet. I think I have never seen such inhuman-looking, hideous specimens of the human race. Monkeys are far superior in looks to them, and their utter malignity and wickedness of expression lent additional ugliness to their distorted, pointed features. Murders were--well, if not daily occurrences, at least very frequent among them, and at last I grew quite accustomed to the diabolical shrieks and shouts which the warm, balmy air wafted to me from the opposite hill.

More often than not the rows originated over some very trivial matter. No European would venture for love or money into this negro village, and several French Spahis told me that they would not guarantee the life of the white man who dared to enter it even in broad daylight. The Arabs held the same opinion, and no honest man among them would visit the place on any account. Thieves and murderers, however, were certain to find a safe refuge, and many a one, I was informed, had hidden there, married a negress, and become one of the sinister tribe. The police never thought of entering the hamlet, and always abandoned pursuit of a criminal at its boundaries. I cannot imagine why the whole place was not burnt down and its lawless inhabitants dispersed.

I failed to obtain a photograph of one of these beauties. They objected to being taken, and no one dared to insist. The next picture, however, depicts the village itself, as seen from Teniet-el-Haad.

_From a Photograph._]

Talking of murders brings to my mind a double suicide which occurred in the fort. One night I was awakened by a revolver-shot just outside my window. I got up and looked out, but at first could see nothing, so black was the night. After a time, however, I saw a dark mass on the ground and heard a faint moaning. I was about to give the alarm when the sentry passed, stooped down, and uttered an exclamation. Then he went away, to return immediately with others. There was a murmur of voices, and finally they carried something away. My husband was absent, so I was forced to await morning in order to ascertain the facts of the matter. “_Cherchez la femme_” is, alas! a very true adage. The shot was fired by one of our non-commissioned officers, who had killed himself as he walked to and fro in the barrack-yard smoking and talking with his best friend, whom he had just discovered was a successful rival for the heart of the girl he loved and meant to marry as soon as his service was over. Having had suspicions, he had determined to draw the truth from his friend, who was perfectly oblivious of there being any engagement between him and the girl, and confessed freely when pressed that they loved each other and meant to be married later on. Drawing a revolver from his pocket, the unhappy _sous-officier_ cried, “She was to have been my wife!” and, before the other understood what the phrase meant, pulled the trigger and fell dead at his horrified comrade’s feet.

The morning after, the friend, another non-commissioned officer, was raving mad. When the girl learnt of the tragedy she had caused, we learnt afterwards, she grew very white, but said nothing. All day she sat silent with fixed eyes, deaf to the reproaches of her parents, who did not spare their abuse. The next morning they found her asleep in death--she had poisoned herself!

I noticed here and there whilst riding about the country trees from whose branches hung long shreds of different-coloured cloth. On making inquiries I was told they were marabout, or holy, trees. Each district has one or more of these sacred trees, and to them come all the women to beseech of Allah to grant their prayers. In order to obtain the intercession of the holy tree, they hang pieces of their clothing on the branches, which are sometimes almost entirely covered with coloured rags, fluttering in the breeze, and giving the tree a most curious appearance.

A marabout is a saint, or holy man, and it is not given to every man to be a saint, however pious he may be. Real saintship among the Arabs is hereditary, and is one of the three castes of nobility. The sons are heirs to the fathers’ piety, and, though often far from worthy, reap the benefit of their birth-right. This religious nobility has great influence, and can excite or quell revolts, as, Koran in hand, they preach its precepts, often explained to satisfy their own wishes.

Apart from the hereditary marabouts there are the “little” marabouts, who live miserably on public charity beside the tomb of some ancestor who died in the odour of sanctity. Many of these so-called marabouts manage their affairs uncommonly well and are really wealthy men. Here is a story I have been told, which gives one an idea of the way these “little” marabouts set up in business.

Mohammed ben Mohammed was a marabout whose affairs were in a most flourishing condition. Pilgrims visited his ancestor’s tomb by hundreds, leaving many and rich offerings, and Mohammed ben Mohammed grew fatter and wealthier daily until his servitor, Ali ben Ali, became tired of watching his master’s increased wealth and bulk, whilst his own pocket was as flat as his body was thin. So one dark night he silently took his departure, riding on the back of a young ass belonging to his master.

After a march of about thirty miles the ass had enough of carrying Ali. It was a young ass, and knew no better, so it went on strike, lay down, and forthwith died. Thereupon Ali dug a big hole and put the ass in, piling a great mountain of stones over it. Then, sitting down beside the heap, he began to pray. A traveller passing inquired by whose tomb he prayed so fervently. Ali was filled with astonishment. “What! Had he never heard of the great Saint Amar ben Amar (literally ‘an ass, the son of an ass’)? All the people of the country round came there to pray.” The traveller did not fail to mention the Marabout Amar ben Amar’s tomb, and soon pilgrims flocked to it with offerings, and Ali ben Ali grew fat and rich. The faithful neglected Mohammed ben Mohammed, who at last, furious, abandoned his marabout in order to pay a visit to his rival. Great was his astonishment when he recognised his runaway servitor.

Taking him aside, he whispered, “Tell me the truth. Who is your marabout?”

“The ass I stole from you. And now tell me--who is your marabout?”

“The mother of the ass you stole from me!”

I conclude that the two Arabs chuckled together and continued to exploit the faithful in common, but history does not relate any more of their doings--nor, indeed, does it vouch for the complete veracity of the story. It is, however, to my personal knowledge quite the sort of thing one might expect to happen.

_From a Photograph._]

(_To be continued._)

My Alaskan Christmas.

BY W. E. PRIESTLY, OF FAIRBANKS, ALASKA.

We have published a number of stories of adventure in the icy North,
but none giving a more realistic impression of the hardships and
dangers which lie in wait for the traveller and prospector in these
inhospitable regions than this. Mr. Priestley and his partner set
out with dog-teams for a new goldfield, but the partner lost heart
and turned back, leaving him to struggle on alone. Death dogged his
footsteps through the great white wilderness, and but for the
intelligence of his leading dog he would undoubtedly have lost his
life.

It was my fortune, or misfortune, to be present in San Francisco at the time of the earthquake and fire of April 18th, 1906. Although I gained a good deal of valuable experience as my share of the catastrophe, I lost all my belongings to offset the bargain.

I stayed in San Francisco until June 1st, and then resolved to try my luck in another country, where earthquakes and such petty worries are unknown. Fate directed my roving footsteps to Alaska, glowingly described by the transportation companies as “The Golden North--the land of fur, fish, and gold.” I thanked the companies for their information, but did not avail myself of their kind offer to sell me a ticket. Both Nature and Fate seemed to have destined me for a rover, and one of the main tenets of a roving life--to say nothing of my financial status--demanded and ordained that I must travel at the least possible expense. I accordingly made arrangements, and worked my passage from San Francisco to St. Michael’s, _viâ_ Nome, on the ss. _Buckman_. St. Michael’s is a port on the Bering Sea, and is the principal shipping port for the Yukon River and Central Alaska.

_From a Photograph._]

From St. Michael’s I found a boat was leaving for the Tanana district, and again luck favoured me, for I got the chance to work my way up to that part of the country. We traversed the Yukon River as far as Fort Gibbon, and from there proceeded up the Tanana River to the mining camp of Fairbanks, which is situated about four hundred miles up-stream from Fort Gibbon.

I arrived in Fairbanks on July 1st, having travelled nearly four thousand miles since leaving San Francisco, and found myself about twenty-five dollars better off than when I started. I stayed in the Fairbanks district until the end of November. The physical features of this country are best described as “eight months iceberg and four months swamp.”

Towards the end of November rumour began to circulate reports that a new goldfield of incredible richness had been discovered. Tales of “eight dollars to the shovelful” were passed through the camp, and all kinds of stories, real and imaginary, were discussed with feverish excitement.

The new diggings were known as the Chandelar, and were situated at the head-waters of the Chandelar River, a tributary of the Yukon, having its source in the Arctic slope and entering the Yukon River about twenty miles below Fort Yukon.

I was anxious to try my luck in the newly-discovered country, but this was a matter that could not be lightly considered. The diggings were about four hundred miles due north of Fairbanks, and a good deal of preparation was necessary before a trip of this kind could be undertaken. I was a new-comer in the country (locally termed a “chechaco”); I was unused to the ways of the trail; there was no food in the new district, except, of course, wild game; and, finally, the temperature at that time was about forty degrees below zero, with every possibility that it would drop to sixty or seventy below zero by the end of December.

I made up my mind that the first thing I must do would be to get a travelling partner who could be depended on. I finally made arrangements with an old-timer in the country, named Bartlett, who was also going up to the Chandelar. He had been in the Klondike rush of ’98, and as he sat by a hot stove and related his marvellous exploits on the trail, his thrilling adventures and hair-breadth escapes, in a state of “chechaco” simplicity that was almost pitiable I congratulated myself on my choice of a partner.

Finding that I had not enough money to purchase everything necessary, I spoke to two friends of mine, and they agreed to put seventy-five dollars each into the trip; in return, they were to have a one-third interest between them of any mining property that I located in the Chandelar. This is a common occurrence in Alaska, and is generally known as a “grubstake proposition.”

KNOW ALL MEN BY THESE PRESENTS: That We, R.L. MENIFEE, and G.L. BLACKWELL, of Fairbanks, Alaska, have made constituted and appointed, any by these presents do hereby make, contribute and appoint, F. Priestley, of the same place, our true and lawful attorney for us and in our name, place and stead, and for our use and benefit, to locate stake and record for us, places mining property in the CHANDELAR DISTRICT, in the Region of Alaska, North of the Yukon River: [three lines erased here]

hereby giving and granting onto W. PRIESTLEY as said attorney full power and authority to do and perform all and every act and thing whatsoever requisite and necessary to be done in and about the premises, as fully to all intents and purposes as we might or could do if personally present, hereby ratifying and confirming all that our said Attorney, W. PRIESTLEY, shall lawfully do or cause to be done by virtue of these presents.

In WITNESS WHEREOF, we have hereupon set our hands and seals this 3rd day of December, A.D. 1905.

SIGNED, SEALED & DELIVERED IN THE PRESENCE OF: [signatures]]

Agreements were drawn up between us, one being styled a “grubstake agreement” and the other a “power of attorney.” The “grubstake agreement” stated that in return for the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars the parties of the first part drew up this agreement in order that they might have legal claim to a one-third interest in all placer and mining ground staked by party of the second part in the Chandelar district and north of the Yukon River.

The power of attorney was simply a legal document, giving me permission to stake ground for the benefit of absent parties.

Having settled all legal matters and received my “grubstake,” I purchased my outfit--four dogs, a fur robe, a Yukon sled, and a Yukon stove. In addition I had to purchase dog harness, a gun, ammunition, axe, tent, and compass, as well as dog-feed, a good supply of provisions, and suitable clothing for the trip.

My four dogs were of different breeds, only one being a pure native dog or “malamute.” My leader deserves special mention. The most intelligent dog is always placed in the lead, as the dogs are not driven by reins, but simply by word. To tell the dogs to travel straight ahead, the command is “Mush!” or “Mush on!” which is evidently a corruption of the term used by the French-Canadian trappers of the Hudson Bay Company, who would naturally say “Marchez” when ordering their team to travel. To travel to the right the command is “Gee!” and to the left “Aw!”

My leading dog was born in Circle City and had been christened Nellie. She had both the native and the outside strain--a dog whose intelligence and faithfulness cannot be questioned, as after-events will prove.

We left Fairbanks on December 12th, my partner and myself each having four dogs. We had an outfit consisting of tent, stove, guns, ammunition, robes, snow-shoes, one hundred pounds of dog-feed, and about five hundred pounds of food. It was our intention to proceed to Circle City, and there to complete our outfit.

For the first few miles the trail was in excellent condition and we made good time. It was rather late when we started, and by the time we had covered sixteen miles it was already dark. It must be remembered that in the middle of winter there is only a very short period of daylight in Alaska. The first night we stayed at a mining camp known as Golden City, consisting of two saloons and a number of dilapidated cabins, the majority being minus doors or windows.

Next day we made an early start, as we had a very steep hill to climb, known as Cleary Dome. There had been a light fall of snow during the night, and this made the trail very heavy. We found it impossible to get the loads up the hill, so we hitched the eight dogs on to one sled, and, having dragged it to the top of the Dome, we took the dogs down again for the other sled. From the summit there was a steep decline, and it took me all my time to hold back the sled, to prevent it cutting the hind legs of the wheeler dog.

The trail was in bad condition, as it had been cut to pieces by some heavy freight teams. The track at this point ran along the side of a hill down into the valley, and the sleds were on one runner most of the way. Every few minutes they would upset, and a good deal of physical energy would be expended to right them again. The loads were lashed to the sleds, so little actual damage was done.

That night we stayed at Cleary Creek, having accomplished ten miles as the result of the day’s trip, but as the greater part of the ten miles consisted of the ascent and descent already mentioned we were both satisfied.

Next morning we started off, following the trail down Cleary Creek until we struck the Chatanika River, and here we met our first big obstacle. Our course lay up the Chatanika for about seventy miles, but as soon as we arrived on the banks of this river we found it impossible to travel any farther, on account of overflows. It may be as well to explain for the benefit of the uninitiated what is meant by an overflow.

The Chatanika is a river over one hundred miles in length, but is full of gravel bars. At the beginning of winter the stream, of course, freezes, and where the gravel bars are situated it freezes solid to the bottom, owing to the fact that the water is very shallow at these points.

There is always a large body of water flowing from the subterranean springs at the source of this river, and, as this water cannot make its way through the barriers of ice and gravel, it forces itself up through the ice and flows over the top until such time as it freezes or finds its way under the ice again. In some places the overflows thus formed are three or four feet deep.

Now, it is a serious matter to wade through water when the thermometer is a long way below zero. It is the easiest thing in the world for a man to lose his feet in this way, for as soon as one gets wet the moisture freezes into a cake of ice, and unless precautions are immediately taken the limbs may become so badly frozen that amputation is necessary, in order to prevent mortification.

When we found the river was so full of overflows we judged it best to wait a few days and give the water a chance to freeze, as the weather was very cold at this time. We found a deserted cabin, minus door and window, and proceeded to make ourselves as comfortable as possible under these circumstances. We had a stove with us, and as there was plenty of wood handy we soon had the cabin warm.

We stayed at this place over two weeks, waiting for the overflows to close up. Time began to drag heavily on our hands, for the days were very short and game scarce, so all we could do was to eat and sleep and wait for the flood-water to freeze. Our Christmas Day--that day of all the year so eagerly looked forward to in happier climes--we spent as follows. During the few hours of daylight I took my gun and went off into the woods. I found the tracks of a wolverine, but was unable to follow them up, as it was already getting dark, though I could see that the tracks were newly made.

That night we did our best to celebrate Christmas properly. We prepared a feast, which consisted of caribou steak, evaporated potatoes, evaporated onions, canned butter, canned pears, and baking-powder bread. Such little luxuries as plum-puddings and mince-pies were chiefly conspicuous by their absence, and I finished my repast with a bad attack of home-sickness, which was perhaps natural, but hardly in keeping with my _rôle_ of dauntless pioneer.

We waited by the banks of the Chatanika until January 1st, and then, as the overflows still showed no signs of freezing over, we determined to start the New Year and our trip up the river at the same time, and trust to that special Providence which is supposed to guard sailors, fools, drunken men, and little children. The dogs were in good condition, as they had done nothing for two weeks but eat, sleep, and grow fat. They showed a distinct dislike to their harness at first, which was perhaps natural, but after a time resigned themselves to the inevitable.

For the first two miles we managed to pick out a land trail, but after that we had to take to the river, as the timber became too thick. After we had travelled about two miles on the river trail, we began to congratulate ourselves on the condition of the track, for by picking our way carefully and avoiding the stretches of open water we were making good time.

All at once we saw smoke issuing from a small cabin, so we halted the dogs in order to make inquiries regarding the overflows higher up the river. We found the cabin to be occupied by two hunters, who told us that round the bend of the river there was an overflow over three feet deep, which it was impossible to get through. They had been waiting for a week to see whether it would freeze over. We, however, had had enough of delays, so we determined to see whether we could get through.

Reaching the overflow we found it covered with a thin coating of ice. We had just succeeded in getting on to this “glare” ice when, with a crack, it broke under us, and we sank up to our knees in ice-cold water, while the poor dogs were nearly covered. Having once got wet, we thought we might as well try to get through; but it was impossible for the dogs to pull, as they could not get a foothold, and the noses of the sleds were blocked with “slush” ice. We accordingly hitched our eight dogs on to one sled, and I walked ahead in order to encourage the animals to follow me.

Every time I put my foot down I broke through the ice, and it was easy to follow my course by the holes I left behind me in the trail. The farther I went the deeper the water became, and at last I realized that the only thing to be done was to return to the cabin, as it was impossible for either dogs or men to stand the deadly cold of the water much longer. As soon as I arrived at this decision the two hunters, who had come out to assist us, went back to the cabin and prepared a big fire and hot coffee.

We succeeded in getting the dogs on to solid ice again, and the water on the dogs, sleds, and harness--to say nothing of ourselves--immediately turned to ice.

We reached the cabin in a few minutes, got the dogs inside in order to thaw them out, and proceeded to change our frozen clothes. The cabin could hardly be described as pretentious, as the dimensions were only about eight feet by ten, by five feet in height. Put four men and eight dogs, all ice-coated, in this space, with a big fire going, and it will be easily seen that the atmosphere is likely to become somewhat oppressive. To add to our discomfort, the cabin became so hot that the snow on the roof commenced to melt and find its way through the numerous cracks. The floor, consisting as it did of plain mother earth, soon began to take on the form of a small duck-pond, so we were compelled to make a thick carpet of spruce boughs.

Next morning, after a hearty breakfast, we were ready to try the overflow again. My partner at this time began to show himself in his true colours. He was ready to return to Fairbanks, for he had developed a disease variously termed “cold feet,” “crawfish,” or “white feather.”

Reaching the overflow again, we repeated the previous day’s programme, with the same result, but we found that the ice was a little thicker than before. We returned to the cabin, resolved to wait a few days. After staying two more days in the cabin, in an atmosphere resembling a Hindu bazaar or a Turkish bath, another man came up the river with four dogs, and we determined to make a combined attempt to get through.

We therefore hitched the twelve dogs on to one sled, and after a tremendous effort succeeded in getting the sled through the overflow on to solid ice. The first sled taken through contained the tent and stove, and while my partner and myself returned for the other sleds our latest ally pitched the tent and lit the stove, and by the time we got back with the second sled a good cup of coffee was waiting for us. We then returned for the third sled, and having succeeded in dragging it through to the tent we unanimously decided to knock off work, for, although we had only travelled about half a mile from the hunters’ cabin, we were all satisfied that we had done a good day’s work.

Next morning we started before daybreak, determined to put in a long day’s “mush.” The thermometer was down to forty below zero, and we all had the hoods of our “parkas” drawn tight.

We passed Kokomo Creek and had travelled for about six miles when to our dismay we came to a place where the river was open, as far as we could see it round the bend.

The same dreary programme of Chatanika overflow was repeated. Three journeys were made through the water, which was in some places waist deep and was over half a mile long. At the end of the first trip my partner stayed to light a fire. After we had again succeeded in getting the three sleds high and dry we changed our clothes in front of the fire, and, after knocking the ice off the harness and sleds, we made a forced march to an Indian camp about a mile farther ahead. We stayed here for two days, in order to rest the dogs, as their feet had been badly cut by the ice.

At the end of two days my partner and myself started on alone and, after a hard struggle through water and drifts, succeeded in reaching a cabin known as “Cy’s Place,” which is about thirty miles from Cleary Creek. My partner here threw up the sponge and said he was going back to Fairbanks. I told him that I was not in the habit of turning back, so we finally decided to separate, he to go back to Fairbanks, while I made up my mind to try and reach Circle City, and there wait for some party going to the Chandelar.

A bad wind-storm had arisen during the night, and up-river no signs of a trail could be seen, so I left the dogs at “Cy’s Place” and tied on my snow-shoes. Going ahead I “broke trail” for about six miles, returning at night to Cy’s. Next morning I started off on my lone trip, and soon came to the end of my beaten trail. I walked on ahead, wearing my snow-shoes, and the dogs followed as best they could. Every few yards the nose of the sled would bury itself in a drift, and the dogs would lie down until I turned back and dragged it loose.

After I had covered about nine miles in this way the wind began to blow again. It was getting dark, so I tried to pitch the tent, but found it impossible on account of the wind. The only thing left for me to do was to light a big fire and make myself as comfortable as I could until morning. Fortunately there was a good supply of dry wood handy, and I soon had a big fire under the trees. I laid spruce boughs on the snow, and, having fed myself and the dogs, rolled myself in my robe and slept till morning. Of course I had to replenish the fire two or three times during the night, and each time I awoke I found the dogs lying almost on the top of me for warmth.

Next morning, after a rather cheerless breakfast, I started off again. The dogs seemed reluctant to travel, as though aware of some danger ahead. I intended, if possible, to reach a cabin at the mouth of Faith Creek, which was about twenty miles from my camp. I found the trail very heavy, and the only way I could make any progress was to fasten a rope to the sled, tie the other end round my waist, and pull with the dogs. Time and again the sled would be buried in the drifts; but, notwithstanding this, by about half-past two in the afternoon I had made some fourteen miles. It was just commencing to get dark, and the temperature was about forty degrees below zero. I was hoping to get into Faith Creek before five o’clock, as I had not been bothered with overflows, when, suddenly turning a bend in the river, I saw, straight ahead, a stretch of “glare” ice, which warned me to look out for an overflow. I fully realized my serious position. With the weather so cold I was running a chance of freezing to death if I got wet, for the wood all round seemed to be green, and there was now no partner to help me in case I got stuck.

I walked ahead, with the dogs close at my heels, looking for solid ice. Presently, without warning, there was a loud crack, and myself, dogs, and sled were precipitated into the water. The thing happened so suddenly that almost before I realized what had occurred I found myself standing in four feet of water, with the dogs struggling to keep themselves afloat.

My first thought was for them, so I drew out my hunting knife and cut them loose from the sled. They scrambled out as best they could, dragging themselves to solid ice. I next tried to haul the sled out of the water, but found it impossible, so I cut the ropes, let the load sink under the ice, and pulled out the empty sled. With all my food, clothes, dog-feed, and everything else lost, I managed to flounder through the water with the sled on my shoulder. When I got to solid ice once more I began to reflect upon the serious nature of my position. I was at least six miles from any cabin; from feet to neck I was covered with a solid coat of ice; and when I tried to light a fire the green wood refused to burn and my fingers began to freeze. Owing to the ice upon my clothes, I found it impossible to bend my knees, and I realized that my only chance of salvation lay in reaching Faith Creek, six miles away.

Without wasting any further time, I fastened the dogs to the sled and started off. The wind commenced to blow again, and the trail was completely obliterated. The only thing I could do was to trust to the instinct of Nellie, my leading dog. She struggled on gamely through drifts and snow-banks, and the other dogs and myself followed her. The trail was so bad and my clothes were frozen so stiff that I could only travel at about a mile an hour.

The night grew darker, and it was soon almost impossible to see the trees on either side of the river, except at such times as the trail veered to one side or the other; then the trees would be discernible, standing up stark and naked, like gigantic skeletons rising from the snow. In the zenith the Polar star glowed brilliantly, while as far as the eye could reach the snow lay like a gleaming shroud on the earth. Not a sound was to be heard save the panting of the dogs, the crunch of snow under my frozen moccasins, and, somewhere in the distance, the howl of an animal. I cared for nothing, thought of nothing, desired nothing, save to reach Faith Creek. Time and again I was ready to drop, but I still kept on, spurred by the thought that I was fighting for my life, for I knew that once I gave way to the lassitude that seemed to be gripping my senses, my life would pay the forfeit. I had heard so much of lone “mushers” on the trail, who had lain down on the snow for a sleep from which they never awoke, that I was prepared to struggle on to the last.

Soon the dogs began to tire, and it was only by persistent effort that I could keep them from lying down in the snow. They were so weary, poor brutes, that it was cruelty to whip them; all I could do was to pat them and encourage them with my voice. Nellie tried to lick my frozen gauntlet, or, half in play, to bite my numbed hand.

Still I kept on, hoping against hope that I should soon see the light in the Faith Creek cabin. I kept shouting, but all the answer I got was a mocking echo. Blundering through snow-drifts, with the wind-blown snow driving against my face like particles of glass, the dogs panting with exertion or moaning from the pain of their lacerated feet, without a sign of a trail or landmark, and with my feet in a peculiar condition of insensibility, still I staggered blindly but persistently towards my goal.

At eight o’clock I was still on the trail; but somehow a doubt began to take possession of me that perhaps I had missed the cabin altogether and was wandering towards the Twelve-mile Divide.

All at once the dogs stopped, and on stepping ahead to see what was the matter I found they were tangled in their harness. I tried to bend over to release them, but my clothes were so stiff that I found it impossible, and I lurched over, falling head-foremost into a drift.

I tried to raise myself to a sitting position, only to fall back weakly. A new sensation seemed to be taking possession of me. I no longer desired to struggle; a mysterious warmth appeared to surround me, and a drowsiness stole over my senses. My only wish was to be left alone to sleep. I was just dozing off when Nellie, my leading dog, lifted up her nose and gave vent to a weird, wolf-like howl, which she repeated after a few seconds’ interval. I gazed at her with an almost ludicrous amazement, wondering stupidly why she was making such a noise. Almost simultaneously with her second howl I heard a shout and, to my amazement, saw a lantern shining through the trees. I at once realised that help was at hand, and immediately the desire for sleep left me. A wild longing for life, for warmth, for food, asserted itself instead, and I gave a yell that must have sounded like the war-whoop of an Apache Indian. A moment later I saw two men approaching me, and at once struggled to my feet. Through the trees came the shouted query, “Are you all right?” “I’m all right,” I answered. “Where’s the cabin?” By this time the two men had reached me, and one of them, looking hard into my face, exclaimed, “Why, your nose is frozen!”

He put his arm round me and helped me to the cabin, while the other man took charge of my dogs. I found that the cabin was only about a hundred yards from the place where I had lain down to sleep, but, owing to the fact that it was built in a grove of trees, it was impossible to see it until one was close to it. It seems almost ironical that had it not been for the howl of a dog I would surely have died within a hundred yards of warmth and shelter.

Once in the cabin the men examined me, and found that my nose, ears, and fingers were frozen, but not dangerously so. Without any hesitation they took a knife and cut off my socks and moccasins. My feet, from the toes to the ankles, were as white and as hard as marble. They thawed them out with snow, and for three hours I suffered indescribable torment as the congealed blood began to circulate.

Next morning my feet were so swollen and looked so bad that I was wrapped in furs, packed in a dog-sled, and taken to the hospital at Fairbanks, which was reached in three days. I lay in the hospital for three months, but fortunately did not lose any portion of my feet. It will be many months, however, before I shall be able to walk as well as formerly, but I count myself as one of the most fortunate, because I escaped with my life.

PRIESTLY MAY LOSE TOES ON EACH FOOT

_Young Englishman Who Was Frozen on Chatanika, Now at St. Joseph’s Hospital--No Use of His Feet_

William Priestly, a young English man, was brought to St. Joseph’s hospital yesterday suffering from frozen feet. It is possible that he may recover the use of them, but it is more probable, judging from the diagnosis of the doctors, that he will lose a few toes of both feet.

It was the cursed Chatanika that caused Priestly’s suffering, for it was in the treacherous overflows of that stream that he got his feet wet while on the way to the Chandlar strike.

He laid up at Cy’s for some time until he could be brought to the hospital. Priestly’s feet are in fearful shape, and were frozen far up on the instep. In fact it seems odd that his toes were not snapped off so solid were they frozen it is said.

It will be many long days before he can use his feet again, no matter whether the toes can be saved or not.

Priestly was in San Francisco at the time of the earthquake and fire, afterward serving on the special police and relief corps. He it was who last June told what great graft had been carried on in San Francisco and said the Times was the first paper to publish the corruption, which few believed at that time existed.]

It only remains for me to add that Nellie is still with me; I intend never to part with her. Very few men can say that they have cheated death through the howl of a dog, and I consider it my duty to care for the animal who, by her devotion and intelligence, saved my life that day on the Circle trail.

_From a Photograph._]

THE WIDE WORLD: In Other Magazines.

THE HINDU IN THE COLONIES.

The photograph reproduced herewith is taken from “The Captain,” and shows a Hindu employed on a farm in British Columbia carrying on his head a load of boxes of apples over six feet in height and weighing one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The photograph incidentally gives a very good idea of the grand scenery in this flourishing colony.

A MARKET FOR OLD HATS.

The group of islands known as the Nicobars, about one hundred and fifty miles south of the Andamans, has been but little explored, though the manners and customs of the inhabitants offer very interesting peculiarities to the ethnologist. One of the most noticeable of these is the passion for old hats. Young and old, chief and subject alike, endeavour to outvie one another in the singularity of shape, no less than in the number of old hats they can acquire during their lifetime. On a fine morning at the Nicobars it is no unusual thing to see the surface of the ocean in the vicinity of the islands dotted over with canoes, in each of which the noble savage, with nothing on but the conventional slip of cloth and a tall white hat with a black band, may be watched catching fish for his daily meal. Second-hand hats are in most request, new ones being looked upon with suspicion and disfavour.--“TIT-BITS.”

EXTERMINATING BIG GAME IN BRITISH COLUMBIA.

Numbers of irresponsible men ride along the trails in spring, when the deer are in deplorable condition after a hard winter, and almost too weak to get out of the way, taking pot shots at the poor brutes with revolvers, hardly troubling to see whether they make a kill, and never following a wounded animal. Almost every district which has had a mining excitement has had the game almost entirely depleted in this manner. The more outrageous offences have certainly been stopped to some extent; but there is still a great deal of this sort of thing going on, and now that the laws are being more strictly enforced many of these irresponsible persons take out a miner’s licence so as to render themselves safe from prosecution.--“COUNTRY LIFE.”

DICKENS STORIES IN CHINA.

The Chinese are rapidly taking up Western ideas, and translations of English and French novels are now in increasing demand. Our romantic and sentimental treatment of love-affairs, however, is a thing so foreign to Oriental ethics that the hero of the ordinary European novel appears to the Chinese mind as a person of perverted moral sense and doubtful sanity. Translations of Dickens, therefore, impress the Chinese reader less than they amaze him, and detective stories and tales of adventure command a more sympathetic audience.--“WOMAN’S LIFE.”

“THE VIRGIN’S TREE.”

The annexed photograph shows a famous tree growing in the little Egyptian village of Matariyah, which is partly built on the ruins of Heliopolis and situated about four and a half miles to the north of Cairo. It is usually called “The Virgin’s Tree,” from the tradition that the Virgin Mary sat and rested under its shadow during her flight to Egypt. It is also said that by remaining hidden in the hollow tree by means of a marvellously-twisted cobweb she succeeded in escaping her persecutors.--“THE STRAND MAGAZINE.”

Odds and Ends.

The “Shark Papers”--A Mysterious Archway--British Columbian “Poverty
Socials,” etc., etc.

_From a Photograph._]

Few exhibits in the Institute of Jamaica, British West Indies, possess a more curious history than the famous “Shark Papers,” a photograph of which is reproduced herewith. The story is, briefly, as follows: On August 28th, 1799, a naval officer named Hugh Wylie, in command of H.M. cutter _Sparrow_, while cruising off the coast of Hayti, gave chase to, and eventually captured, the American brig _Nancy_. The prize was sent in to Port Royal, and a fortnight later a suit for salvage was brought on behalf of Wylie against “a certain brig or vessel called the _Nancy_, her guns, tackle, furniture, ammunition, and apparel, and the goods, wares, merchandise, specie, and effects on board her, taken and seized as the property of some person or persons, being enemies of our Sovereign Lord and King, and good and lawful prize on the high seas, and within the jurisdiction of this Court.” A claim for the dismissal of the case with costs, backed with affidavits, was put in by the owners of the brig, in which, as it subsequently turned out, they perjured themselves freely. While the case was proceeding Lieutenant Michael Fitton, in command of the _Ferret_, and Wylie in command of the _Sparrow_ (both tenders of H.M.S. _Abergavenny_, the flagship at Port Royal), put out to sea with the object of earning for the stationary flagship a share of the prizes which were constantly being taken by the cruisers. On rejoining after an accidental separation, Fitton invited Wylie by signal to come to breakfast. While waiting for him to come aboard the _Ferret_ crew captured a huge shark, which, on being opened, was found to contain a sealed packet of papers. During the breakfast Wylie mentioned that he had detained an American brig called the _Nancy_. Fitton thereupon said he had her papers. “Papers?” answered Wylie. “Why, I sealed up her papers and sent them in with her.” “Just so,” replied Fitton; “those were her false papers. Here are her real ones; my men found them in the stomach of a shark!” These papers, together with others of an incriminating nature found on the _Nancy_ some time after her capture, carefully concealed in the captain’s cabin, led to the condemnation of the brig and her cargo on the 25th November, 1799. The head of the shark which swallowed the papers is still preserved in the United Service Museum at Whitehall, London, S.W.

_From a Photograph._]

The archway here shown, made of enormous slabs of coral rock neatly chiselled and mortised, is one of the many interesting problems of the Pacific. If, as is generally believed, the South Sea Islands are of comparatively recent volcanic and coralline formation, who built this archway, which is situated on one of the smallest islands of the Tongan group? The oldest native inhabitants of the islands know nothing of its origin, and from its appearance the monument is of great antiquity. From this and other indications it has been claimed that the “Milky Way” of the Pacific was in prehistoric times one vast continent, inhabited by peoples of whom the present-day world has lost all record.

_From a Photograph._]

“Travelling recently on donkey-back across a trackless portion of the Conchilla Desert in South-Eastern California,” writes a correspondent, “we sighted ahead of us above the sage-brush a nondescript object which on nearer approach resolved itself into the two dilapidated tramcars shown in the next photograph. They formed the equipment of a ‘horse railway’ across the sands ten or twelve years ago to connect a solitary station on the Southern Pacific Railway with an agricultural colony several miles distant. The farming enterprise, however, failed utterly, and the ‘horse railway’ with it. The incongruous sight of these two abandoned cars in the midst of drifting sands is all that remains to-day to tell the tale of shattered hope.”

The amusing handbill shown below refers to a curious function which is very popular in British Columbia--the “poverty social.” This is an entertainment of the kind formerly known in more conventional circles as a “conversazione.” Whereas the latter is chiefly distinguished for its formality and general uncomfortableness, these “poverty socials” are delightfully free and easy; indeed, the people attending them are actually fined if their clothes are considered at all stylish or savouring of ostentation, the idea, of course, being that everyone--rich and poor alike--shall feel entirely at their ease. Needless to say, the bad spelling and the mistakes made in the printing of the bill are all carefully designed to heighten the homely effect of the gathering.

_you air Axed to A Poverty Soshall_

THAT US FOLKS OF THE EPWORTH LEAGUE

_Air A-goin Tu hAve in_ THE SCULE ROOM,

_Queen’s Ave. Methodist Church_

_NEW WESTMINSTER, B.C._

THURSDY NITE, APRIL 26, 1906

RULS AND REGELASHUNS

I. All wimmin wil be xpected tu bee togged out in kaliker dresses & good Gingem apirins: rufles, flounces, etc. air not konsiddered stiLish and oners aer lible too fyne.

II. Evry man hoo is cawt wearin a biled shiRt or stannup kalar wil bee find 5 sense. Hum-maid chees-cloth Nektys & ol Kentuk-ky Jeens wyll be reKkonD senSible aS wel as ornimentl.

A PRYSE

Wil be givn tu the maN & Wuman havin the wurst lukin rig in the rhume. These RulS wil be enforced tu the Letar. A Kompetent Komitty wil introDuce Strangirs & Luk after Bashful Fellars. Al extrees & artikles of Adornment wil Be Find.

_Kum & hav Sum pHun & git sumpn tu eat._

Admishun to the Bilding 15 (fiftene) sense.]

_From a Photograph._]

It is questionable if any animal on earth could duplicate the swallowing feat that is to be seen daily (or as often as a tourist comes along) at the Cawston Ostrich Farm in South Pasadena, California. The ostriches on this farm are veritable giants of their race, having responded generously to the genial climate, good food, and scientific care. Oranges are one of their great dainties--the big “navel” oranges of California, measuring upwards of three and a half inches in diameter. One old patriarch named “Emperor William” will catch the oranges one after another, full ten feet above the ground, until an even dozen may be seen at the same time slowly bumping down his long expanse of neck, to be finally lost in the ruffle of feathers where neck and body join! “William” has been known to gulp thirty-five or forty oranges in succession, and the fact that he is in robust health at twenty-three years of age seems to indicate that California oranges agree with him.

_From a Photograph._]

An Indian reader writes: “I enclose a photograph which I recently took whilst paying a visit to the Indian hill station of Darjeeling. The picture represents a Bhutia, or native of Bhutan, playing ‘Diabolo.’ Although the game has made big strides both at home and abroad, I think that probably Darjeeling, at an altitude of seven thousand feet, represents the highest point it has touched at present.”

_From a Photograph._]

In Spanish-speaking countries young women are allowed but little of the liberty that they enjoy in lands where English is the native tongue. They rarely meet young men at social entertainments, and are never permitted to converse with them except in the presence of older people. They do, of course, contrive to carry on flirtations, but chiefly with the eyes. In every town in a Spanish-speaking country there is a _plaza_, where a band plays on one or two evenings of the week. The young men and women congregate there, the former walking round and round in one direction and the latter in the opposite direction. Thus they are constantly meeting and making eyes at each other, but they do not pair off or sit down on the benches together. When a young man wants to pay his attentions to a girl, he must get notes smuggled to her or “play the bear”--that is, stand under the window of her room and try to attract her attention, either by serenading her with some musical instrument, or, if he has no gift that way, by simply waiting patiently until she chances to look out and cast him an encouraging glance. In spite, however, of all difficulties and obstacles, Cupid contrives to find a way, and young people fall in love and marry just as in lands where etiquette is less strict and opportunities for _tête-à-tête_ conversations more frequent.

_From a Photograph._]

The striking little photograph above was sent by Colonel the Hon. H. E. Maxwell, D.S.O., from the remote post of Cherat, on the North-West frontier of India. “It was taken during a flight of locusts,” he writes. “They covered the hills for miles in every direction, and during their two or three days’ stay caused enormous damage to the few trees and shrubs with which we are blessed, stripping them entirely of their leaves, and in some cases even eating away the bark!”