His Fur Clothing Was Neat And Clean, Fairly Shining
In The Wintry Light.
The snowy weather that morning must have called
winter to mind; for as soon as he got his breakfast, he ran to a tuft
of dry grass, chewed it into fuzzy mouthfuls, and carried it to his
nest, coming and going with admirable industry, forecast, and
confidence.
None watching him as we did could fail to sympathize with
him; and I fancy that in practical weather wisdom no government
forecaster with all his advantages surpasses this little Alaska
rodent, every hair and nerve a weather instrument.
I greatly enjoyed this little inland side trip - the wide views; the
miners along the branches of the great river, busy as moles and
beavers; young men dreaming and hoping to strike it rich and rush
home to marry their girls faithfully waiting; others hoping to clear
off weary farm mortgages, and brighten the lives of the anxious home
folk; but most, I suppose, just struggling blindly for gold enough to
make them indefinitely rich to spend their lives in aimless
affluence, honor, and ease. I enjoyed getting acquainted with the
trees, especially the beautiful spruce and silver fir; the flower
gardens and great grassy caribou pastures; the cheery, able marmot
mountaineer; and above all the friendship and kindness of Mr. Le
Claire, whom I shall never forget. Bidding good bye, I sauntered back
to the head of navigation on the Stickeen, happy and rich without a
particle of obscuring gold-dust care.
Chapter VII
Glenora Peak
On the trail to the steamboat-landing at the foot of Dease Lake, I
met a Douglas squirrel, nearly as red and rusty in color as his
Eastern relative the chickaree. Except in color he differs but little
from the California Douglas squirrel. In voice, language, gestures,
temperament, he is the same fiery, indomitable little king of the
woods. Another darker and probably younger specimen met near the
Caribou House, barked, chirruped, and showed off in fine style on a
tree within a few feet of us.
"What does the little rascal mean?" said my companion, a man I had
fallen in with on the trail. "What is he making such a fuss about? I
cannot frighten him."
"Never mind," I replied; "just wait until I whistle 'Old Hundred' and
you will see him fly in disgust." And so he did, just as his
California brethren do. Strange that no squirrel or spermophile I yet
have found ever seemed to have anything like enough of Scotch
religion to enjoy this grand old tune.
The taverns along the Cassiar gold trail were the worst I had ever
seen, rough shacks with dirt floors, dirt roofs, and rough meals. The
meals are all alike - a potato, a slice of something like bacon, some
gray stuff called bread, and a cup of muddy, semi-liquid coffee like
that which the California miners call "slickers" or "slumgullion."
The bread was terrible and sinful. How the Lord's good wheat could be
made into stuff so mysteriously bad is past finding out.
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