Wilderness, A Journal of Quiet Adventure in Alaska

ournal goes on recording a drea

he mighty forces of the sky? Dawn breaks, you jump from bed, stand barefoot on the threshold of the door, look through the straight trunked spruces at the brightening world, and read at sight God's will for one more whole, long day of life. "Ah God! it rains again." And sitting on the bed you wearily draw on

battle cry, worked hard,-and then made up for outdoor dreariness and wet by heapi

ood inside upon the shelf. Set up the far-famed air-tight stove where it will keep you warm,-warm feet in bed and a warm back while painting. Patch up the poor, storm-battered paper roof,-two or three holes we find and we are sure it leaks from twenty. About the cabin pile the hemlock boughs, dense-leafed and warm, making a green slope almost to the eaves. Now it looks cozy

aking of Rockwell. I was at that moment pouring beans into the

oor-man, begg

yer, mercha

anyone lay plans fo

HE H

of earth. Life is so simple! Unerringly he follows his desires making the greatest choices first, then onward into a narrowing pathway until the true goal is reached. How

ld of fancy, kingdom of beasts, the world he dreams about and draws,-and my created land of striding heroes and poor fate-bound men-real as I have painted them or to me nothing is,-and then all round about our common, daily, island-world, itself more

oftly. Winter, to meet o

the snob in literature. How it did weary us and madden us, his English-gentry pride,-unless we outright laughed. "At last it's finished. That's an event. When Kingsley isn't showing off he's moralizing

ncing in its details, is ridiculous. Action they like, the deed-not thoughts about it. Doubtless the simple saga form is best of all,-life as it happens, neither right nor wrong, words that they can understand, things they can compr

he gamut of expression is narrow life is still full of joy and

thirty feet from land, rolled their huge, shining bodies into view, plunged, raced w

d like cannon, the plunge into the depths of the poor, frantic, wounded whale, and his return again for air; again the thunder sound and flyi

ath. Real tears were shed from

Olson. They're on the search of that small c

DAY'

board as we had thought? In that case she'd been stolen, and who were the men and where

e care for him day after day, he twines himself, about our hearts. Then at last one day when we'd pastured him in freedom out

ow many times do we travel down the cove to the point from wh

om. I throw a heavy armful of kindling wood into his face-and he just sneezes. But Rockwell plays with the goats

Novemb

description. I painted in-and out-of-doors continuously all the day except when Rockwell and I plied the saw. It is no litt

of Caine's Head, the wash of a storm at sea. Still over the heaving, glassy water we look in vain for Olson. Dark days, and the short hours are long with waiting. How many

n my head and there in our cove before my very eyes at

ld have found through its mad war at least some fragrance of the peace and freedom

that the mail has brought. It is late, Rockwell is asleep, the room is cold, it s

November

sed even in this ever silent place. At earliest daylight began a heavy thunderstorm with lightning all about and a downpour of hail.

en spot he replied: "You damn fools, you don't understand an artist at all. Do you suppose Shakespeare wrote

at does h

mountain there on a picture, and next time I se

L T

ard had rejoiced for a short time in rumors of a German spy on Fox Island. I told Olson that the authorities might still come and remove me. He flared up, "I'd like to see them try it! We could take to the mountains with guns, and more than one of them would nev

navigating by the echo from the mountain faces.

most amusingly in his own queer spelling. Now, though it is already late, I must draw a while long

November

n begin. I have been working on a drawing of Ro

ng it out in its wake to such a spread that a board that lay across overhead like a collar-beam has fallen with a crash and clatter,-and Rockwell sleeps on!

o. The chop was devilish, short and deep; the boat bridged from one crest to another with, it seemed, a clear tunnel underneath,-and then running up onto a wave mountain she would jump off its dizzy peak landing with a splash in the valley beyond and dousing us well with water. In a calmer spot I stopped the engine and sket

unhappy Chinese Emperor; while far from here in streets and towns the tin nightingale of law-made liber

ome; flying twigs and ice beat on the roof, the boards creak and groan under the wind's weight, the lamp flutters, moss is driven in and falls upon my work-table, t

'S

of pale liquid half filled with raisins he poured me a drink, mixing it with an equal

s it?"

" he said, sma

one trapper to another," on how to trap men,-in my case

bring out for the foxes.) We have eaten a dozen. To-day I cracked seventeen to find six for dinner

ppy. He reads now quite freely from any book. Drawing has become a natural and regular occupation for him, almost a recreation-for h

ance in the crisp air, the curved spine bends backward as the upstretched arms describe that superb embracing gesture of the good-night yawn. November the thirtee