Gulf and Glacier; or, The Percivals in Alaska

“The contribution I have now to read,” said the editor, as soon as silence was restored, “is accompanied with an apology from the author, stating that for lack of original material he has drawn largely upon such printed sources as were at his command, in giving you a brief account of

MYSTERIOUS ALASKABY DARWIN FITZ-AGASSIZ THOMPSON

The interior of Alaska is at present one of the few remaining habitable spots on the surface of the globe, which remain practically unexplored by the white man.

A few years ago Central Africa held this distinction, but Speke, Grant, Du Chaillu, Livingstone, Stanley, and dozens of others have now penetrated those somber jungles, the land of mystery, the fabled abode of hideous monsters, giants and dwarfs, and soon a transcontinental railroad will connect Zanzibar with Stanley Pool and the mouth of the Congo.

Within half a dozen years, Alaska has been similarly assailed, and at this very moment there are bands of intrepid men camping here and there in that lonely interior, and calling upon the hitherto impenetrable forests and desolate tundras to deliver up the secrets they have held for untold ages.

Doubtless many wonderful discoveries await these explorers and their successors. New plants will be found, mountains of precious ore, a vast wealth of timber and water-power, and, it may be, strange creatures hitherto unknown to science.

It is believed by many that the mastodon, whose skeleton rears itself high above the elephant’s, in our museums, is not entirely extinct, but actually roams the tangled thickets of inner Alaska. It is stated that Professor John Muir himself lends countenance to this belief, asserting that he has seen the bones of these mighty animals, with the fresh flesh adhering to them. Certain it is that the great, curved tusks of the mammoth (as it is sometimes called) are found all over the southwestern slope of Africa, and that natives report encounters with huge living animals with similar tusks.

An animal which is unnamed, save by the coast hunters hereabouts, is the “Mt. St. Elias bear,” such as was shot by members of our party last week.

The head is very broad, and the fur a silvery gray. The skin is highly prized, not only for its rarity, but for its beauty, and Indians have been known to refuse a hundred dollars for one. They sometimes hang up such a skin in front of the “big house” of their village, as a talisman to aid them in future hunting, such is its magic power.

Within a few years the American bison, once so familiar in all stories of Western adventure, has become almost wholly extinct. A few individuals are said to lurk in the meadows and high tablelands of Alaska; but soon they must rank with the mastodon.

I have had time to but touch upon the mysteries of our great Northwestern Territories. Little by little its marvels, its wealth, its beauties will unfold to modern research, and the schoolboy of a generation hence will look back with incredulous wonder upon the maps, the charts and the scientific works upon Alaska that alone are available to-day.

“I know who wrote that,” said Randolph, looking meaningly at the editor.

The latter, however, took no notice of the implication, and, turning over the next sheet in the pile, read aloud the following poem, which was unsigned:

A CHRISTMAS CAROLOnly a bird on a bough of fir —Look, can you see his feathers stir,And hear his wee notes, soft and low,Echoes of songs of long ago?I am not bearing my cross, you see,For the cross itself is bearing me.When birds are frightened, or suffer loss,Alone in the darkness, they fly to a cross,And never are heard to moan, “I must,”But always twitter, “I trust! I trust!”For not a fluttering sparrow can fallBut into His hand, who loveth all.Lord, hear thy children while they pray,Make us thy sparrows this Christmas Day.

“Bessie wrote that,” whispered Pet, glancing at the little Captain, who did not deny the authorship, but smiled a little as she nestled closer to her father’s side.

“While I am reading verse,” remarked Mr. Selborne, “I may as well read, though a little out of course, another short poem about sparrows.

SPARROWSFrom the orchard, sweet with blossoms,From the waving meadow-grasses,From the heated, dusty pavementWhere a tired city passes,Rise the happy sparrow-voices,Chirps and trills, and songs of gladness —Bits of sunshine, changed to music,Brightening, scattering clouds of sadness.At the first fair flush of dawning,At the twilight’s last faint shining,Sparrows sing, through storm and darkness,Never doubting nor repining.Fluttering to and fro, whereverFaith is fainting, life is dreary,Bear they each his little messageTo the hopeless and the weary:“Sparrows trust their Heavenly Father;Centuries ago he told usWe should never fall unheeded;In his love He would enfold us.“So we cast our care upon Him,Never fearing for to-morrow;And we’re sent by Him to help you,When your sky is dark with sorrow.”

“I think the assistant editor knows who wrote that,” said Mr. Percival, glancing toward Adelaide with a smile. “Mr. Selborne, it is getting rather late. How many more articles have you in the – ?”

“Three, sir; and one of them is very short, being a four-line poem or quatrain. Shall I read it now?”

“If you please.”

“This poem is printed so neatly that the writer has evidently spent as much time upon it as the producers of some of the longer pieces,” the editor remarked, holding the sheet for all to see.

EXCELSIORBY A. M. ATEUR’Tis said that in life the most exquisite raptureLies not in possession, but striving to capture.Be sure that the proudest success is in vainThat helps not a loftier conquest to gain.

“Very well, Tom,” said Fred Seacomb approvingly. “The sentiment does you credit, my son. I recognize the authorship, however, by the style of print rather than the high moral tone of the poem.”

Tom laughed with the rest, and to cover his retreat called for the next piece, which he knew must be by Pet, as every one else but Mr. Percival was accounted for; and his was pretty sure to be a story.

Mr. Selborne’s voice became very gentle as he read the story of

THE THREE WISHES

“O, dear! I wish I were a tall palm-tree on the borders of a desert, where caravans and missionaries and pilgrims would rest in my shade. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the Pine said.

“O, dear! I wish I lived away up on a mountain-top, where the wind always blows cold and clear, and the snows lie deep in winter. People would come from far countries to visit the mountain, and I would be a guide by the way. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the Palm said.

“O, dear! I wish I were a palm-tree down in the valley, where birds might build their nests in my boughs, and artists would make beautiful pictures of me. Then I should really be of some use in the world.” That is what the little stunted Fir said, on the mountain-top.

Days and weeks came and went. The Pine waited impatiently, and rustled all its branches in the autumn winds, and let fall its brown needles, until a thick carpet of them lay about its trunk on the mossy ground. And out from the moss peeped a few rough green leaves. The Pine noticed that they were shivering in the November wind, and pityingly dropped a few more needles around them.

When the storms of winter came, it stretched its broad, evergreen boughs above the leaves, and sheltered them with its shaggy trunk.

The long, cold months passed at last, and it was spring. Still the Pine grieved and sighed because it could be of no use in the world.

To be sure it had protected the timid, furry leaves so well that they had lived, and now bore in their midst a cluster of small pink blossoms.

Just before sunset a man with coarse, roughened features and a bad look in his face, came and threw himself down on the ground beneath the Pine. His fists were clenched, for he was very angry about something, and, although the Pine never knew it, he was being tempted to a terrible crime.

As the man lay there thinking evil thoughts, and almost making up his mind to the wicked deed, he caught a breath of fragrance which made him for a moment forget his anger.

It reminded him of home, of his boyhood, of a wee sister with blue eyes and waving golden hair, with whom he used to wander into the pine-woods near the old farmhouse and gather flowers.

He looked about him, and his eye fell upon the pink flowers.

“Mayflowers!” he murmured half-aloud. And stretching out his hand he gathered them and held their pure, sweet faces up to his own.

The fierce look left his eyes, and a strange moisture came instead. His lips quivered. He was thinking now of his mother. She had left her children for a far country while they were still tiny creatures. But he could remember her face as she lay in the darkened room, resting so peacefully.

And some one – was it the little blue-eyed sister? – had placed a bunch of Mayflowers —

The man rose, and placing a small green spray of pine with the blossoms, carried them away in his big rough hand.

And the wicked deed was never done.

The Palm sheltered many weary travelers; but the greatest good it did was after it died.

One day a stranger arrived and cut the tall tree down. From its broad leaves a hundred fans were made, and many were the fevered, throbbing brows that were cooled by the Palm as its leaves, now hundreds of leagues apart, waved to and fro above the sufferers. So the Palm, although it never knew it, was permitted to do the work of the Master, refreshing and healing those who were sick with all manner of diseases.

As to the Fir, it tried to keep a brave heart, but it became more and more discouraged as not only months but years rolled by, and it grew no bigger, and could not see that it was of any use in the world.

“So homely am I, too!” it whispered to itself, glancing down at its little thick, gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.

Its only comfort was in giving a shelter to such small birds, and even insects, as were blown about on these heights by the fierce mountain tempests. Once it had a whole night of real joy, when a white rabbit, caught by the storm miles away from home, crouched under its boughs and lay there snugly, a warm, sleepy ball of white fur, till the sun called it home in the morning.

“O, Schwesterchen, seh ’auf! ’S ist ein Tannenbaum!”

Of course all firs understand German, and our little friend knew the child said, “O, little sister, look here! It’s a fir-tree!”

The next word it heard filled it with delight. It was the girl who spoke this time, hardly above her breath, “Weihnachtsbaum!” which was only a queer way of saying, “Christmas-tree!”

They were, in fact, the children of a German peasant, who lived in a small hut far down the mountain-side.

The Fir did not know it, but in reality the peasant had been unfortunate of late, and had grown so cross and surly that he declared he would have no Christmas in his house that year. And Hans and Gretchen had wandered away mournfully on the mountain-side to talk it over.

The Fir was so glad they talked German! If it had been French, now, I don’t believe it could have understood them at all.

“It is such a little one!” said Hans.

“And it has such lovely crosses at the end of its boughs!” said Gretchen.

(The Fir never knew before that it had crosses. But there they were, sure enough.)

“Let’s cut it down and try,” said both together.

So Hans swung his small ax sturdily, and down came the tree. That is, it was too short to fall. It just tipped over on its side a little.

Well, to make the story short, the Fir was carried down and decked out in such simple ways as they could provide without spending any money.

When the peasant saw it for the first time on Christmas Eve – they had kept it for a surprise – he clapped his hands with delight, in spite of all his surliness. And that night, for the first time for many weeks, he brought out the old leather-covered Bible and read a chapter before bed-time.

And what chapter was it?

Why, the story of the first Christmas Eve, when Christ was born in Bethlehem.

As there was now but one article left, all knew that it must be Mr. Percival’s.

They therefore composed themselves to listen with much interest to the story entitled

GETTING SQUARE WITH HIMBY THE OLDEST INHABITANT

“Let that girl alone!”

The speaker was a tall, slightly-built boy of perhaps sixteen. His eyes flashed, and his fists clenched nervously.

“Let that girl alone, I say, or” —

“Well, or what?” sneered a coarse-looking fellow, some two or three years older than the first. “You needn’t think you own this town, Winthrop Ayre, if you did come from Boston!” And he once more advanced toward a neatly-dressed girl, who was timidly cowering in a corner by a stone wall and a high fence, to avoid the touch of her rough tormentor. The latter was supported by two more of his kind, and all three were evidently trying to frighten her by their fierce looks and rude words.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mort Lapham!” exclaimed Winthrop indignantly, placing himself directly in front of the frightened girl. “Deacon Lapham’s son might be in better business than insulting girls in the street.”

“So you want to put your finger in the pie, do you? Here, fellows, let’s give him a lesson!”

Winthrop noticed that the attention of all three was now upon him alone, and motioned to the girl to run. She moved slowly a few steps down the street, and then stopped. Meanwhile the big bully raised his hand and tried to slap the city boy in the face. Winthrop warded off the blow easily, and retreated into the corner where the girl had been. “You’d better keep away, Mort,” he said quietly, though his cheeks were hot; “and you, too, Dick and Phil. I don’t want to fight, and now you’ve let the girl go, there’s nothing to fight about, that I know of.”

“Coward!” cried Mort, enraged at missing his blow. “Don’t you wish you had your Sunday-school teacher here to take care of you! She wouldn’t let any one hurt you, would she, Sonny?”

The color in Winthrop’s face deepened, but he said nothing. He was rapidly turning over the question in his mind, whether Miss Kingsbury would want him to turn his cheek if three boys struck him at once.

A tingling blow on that exact spot put to flight his meditations. His fist drew back impulsively, but he would not strike yet. He was in splendid training, this boy, and still stood entirely on the defense, knowing that the true hero is not he who fights for himself, like a brute creature, but for somebody else.

“Coward!” hissed Mort Lapham once more, cautiously keeping out of reach of the other’s arm. “Hit him again, Phil!”

As the three closed about him, a determined look in their ugly faces, the girl who had lingered irresolutely at a few paces distance, gave a low cry for help, and rushed up to the group as if to protect her protector.

“Take that!” shouted Mort, throwing out his hand and striking her, perhaps harder than he really meant to, full in the face.

Before he had time to see the effect of his blow, there was a crash between his eyes, and the earth seemed suddenly flying up into the sky. As he lay on the ground half-stunned, Winthrop, who felt that it was at last time to act, turned fiercely on his other opponents. Surprised by the suddenness of his attack, they forgot the superiority of their numbers, and started backwards. Another nervous blow from the slender young athlete, and Phil was on his back beside his leader, while Dick Stanwood, tripping over a stone – purposely or not the boys never knew – went down ingloriously with the rest. Above them stood young Ayre, like Saint Michael over his enemies, panting and glowing.

“Oh! are you hurt?” asked the girl, hurrying up to “Saint Michael,” and laying her hand on his arm.

Winthrop laughed. “Well, I’m able to walk,” he said reassuringly. Then: “Let’s leave these rascals to come to their senses. May I see you home?”

The girl flushed prettily in her eagerness. “You are so kind,” she said. “I live just the other side of that hill, and if you’ll come in a few minutes and see grandpa, I’ll be very much obliged.”

“But your forehead,” added Winthrop, as they walked along the dusty road side by side, leaving their three late assailants to sneak off in the opposite direction; “I’m afraid that fellow hurt you, though I don’t believe he meant to strike you so hard.”

“Oh! it isn’t much. I haven’t told you who I am,” she added shyly. “I know about you and your sister Marie, over at the Elms. Your Uncle Ayre and my grandfather are dear friends.”

“Then you must be ‘Puss’ Rowan!”

“Yes,” she laughed; “though it’s rather saucy for you to say it. My real name is Cecilia.”

“Excuse me, Miss Cecilia.”

“O, dear me! Don’t call me that, or I shall think you are speaking to somebody else. ‘Puss’ I’ve always been, and ‘Puss’ I must be, I suppose!” And she gave a comical little sigh, ending in another ripple of laughter, which was very pleasant to hear.

“Yes,” she went on, more soberly, “I’ve heard how your sister was ill, and you brought her here for her health, to stay all summer. May I come and see her? She’s just about my age, grandpa says.”

“Do! It will do her good, I’m sure,” replied Winthrop warmly, glancing at his companion’s pretty face and sunny curls.

Puss blushed a little, and suddenly became very demure. “Here’s grandpa’s, where I live,” she said, pausing before an old, gambrel-roofed house. “Won’t you come in?”

All the houses in Taconic were pleasant inside and out. This one looked particularly so.

“Thank you; just for a minute,” said Winthrop, walking up with Puss between two rows of lilac bushes. The girl led him into a cool, old-fashioned parlor, which had shells on the mantel-piece, and great, irregular beams in the ceiling.

Mr. Rowan, a silvery-haired gentleman, with much stately dignity and kindly manner, soon entered, and talked pleasantly with the boy, of his uncle’s younger days and Winthrop’s own affairs. Altogether a half-hour passed very quickly, and Winthrop was sorry to feel obliged to take his leave.

Puss went down to the gate with him.

“Be sure to tell your sister I am coming to-morrow,” she said. “And you’ll call again here yourself, won’t you? I shall not soon forget how you took care of me!”

Winthrop drew himself up and lifted his hat in elegant city fashion; which, however, only made Puss laugh and shake her curls.

“It’s no use to be the least bit dignified with me,” she said merrily, “for I don’t know what to do back. We just shake hands, here in the country, and say good-by.”

“Good-by,” said Winthrop, taking her little brown hand with mock solemnity.

“Good-by,” laughed Puss, “that’s better. Don’t forget your message!”

As Winthrop walked rapidly toward his uncle’s house, he went over and over the exciting events of the afternoon. He had only arrived about a week before, but he had already come in contact with the three boys who had been amusing themselves by rudely teasing Miss Cecilia Rowan, the gentlest and prettiest girl in the village. They were notorious, he had soon found, for their ill-behavior and rough manners, and had even been suspected of certain petty thefts in the neighborhood. Winthrop could not help feeling that he should hear from them again.

The meeting between his sister and Puss Rowan took place the very next day, and the two girls were almost immediately warm friends. As Winthrop had predicted, Puss’s bright face and winsome ways won the heart of the pale city maiden at once, and “did her good,” too.

One or two pleasant afternoons they passed together, and several delightful trips were planned. One of these was a small lunch party, to a favorite spot for the village young folks, called “Willow Brook.” It was about four miles from Taconic Corner, and the road to it lay through deep woods, adding an enjoyable drive to and fro, to the pleasures of the day.

Willow Brook is a noisy little stream that comes dancing down from a spur of the White Mountains, finding its way through a heavy growth of spruce and fir, over half a dozen granite ledges, and so onward until it reaches the upper Taconic meadows, where it suddenly becomes demure and quiet; but, nevertheless, is all dimples when the wind whispers to it through the sedges, or teases for a romp under the shadow of the birch-trees that line its bank here and there. At length it reaches a small picturesque valley, where the hills, though by no means lofty, perhaps remind it of its mountain childhood; for there it pauses, and holds in its bosom the pictures of the gently rising uplands, with their peacefully browsing flocks of lambs – and gathers white lilies, and so rests a while from its journey. At times, it is true, a dimple of the old-time fun, or an anxious shadow as it hears the roar of machinery and busy life beyond, hides the treasured secrets of its heart, but as the ruffled brow smooths, you can see again in those quiet depths, lambs, lilies, fleecy clouds, alike snowy white and beautiful.

The mill had stood at the foot of “Lily Pond,” where the road crossed the stream, nobody knows how long. There was an old-fashioned dam, built of a few logs and a good deal of earth and rock, now overgrown with grass and bushes up to the very sluiceway of the mill. The waste-board, over which the water flowed in a thin, glistening sheet in the early spring when the pond was high, was scarcely more than ten feet long. About a hundred feet further down the stream was a shady grove of willows and other trees, growing down close to the water’s edge. Toward this spot Winthrop with his sister, Puss and her father rode merrily enough that hot July day. Mr. Rowan did not go down to the grove at once, but, having let the young people jump out with their baskets at the Lily Pond Bridge, drove on to a neighbor’s to transact some business, promising to join the party at lunch a half an hour later. Winthrop assisted his sister carefully down over a steep embankment to the willows, Puss springing ahead and calling to her companions that she had found “a lovely place right beside the water.”

Baskets and shawls were soon safely stowed away, and Winthrop, with the help of the girls, arranged a sort of shelter of boughs. When a small fire had been kindled on a flat rock just in front, Puss laughed with delight, and Marie’s delicate face showed a glow of healthy pleasure, which her brother noted with quiet satisfaction. Plainly Taconic life was bringing the frail invalid back to strength and health.

Leaving the girls to chatter over the beauties of the place and their plans for the coming weeks, Winthrop strayed down stream a few rods, following a cat-bird, whose whimsical calls led him to suspect a nest among the alders which lined the river at that point.

The bird kept persistently out of sight, but repeated its cry in a more and more distressed tone, until Winthrop reached the very heart of a thicket.

“I’ve got you now!” he said aloud, as he stooped and thrust aside a mass of foliage. Then he started to his feet. He had very nearly laid his hand on – not the pretty, rounded nest of the gray-winged thrush, but the evil, grinning features of Mort Lapham.

“I rayther guess we’ve got you this time, my Boston daisy,” said Mort, rising in his turn. “Tie him up, fellows!”

The ugly youth’s two boon comrades sprang forward from the rear, and before Winthrop could offer the slightest resistance, entangled as he was in the tough, slender stems of the alders, he was bound, hand and foot.

“What are you going to do with me, Phil Bradford?” asked the prisoner quietly, though his heart sank as the three cowardly assailants hurried him roughly through the underbush.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” growled the other, who had not forgotten the blow given in defense of the girl by the roadside. They emerged presently in a little opening that crowned a bluff, some half a dozen feet or more above the surface of the river, where it here made a sudden bend toward the steep bank forming at its base a deep, black pool, with here and there a few pine needles turning slowly in its eddies.

In all this time Winthrop had not uttered a cry. He would not alarm the girls unnecessarily, and might include them in his own dangerous situation.

“Now,” said Mort, with a cruel leer, “we’ll square up our accounts. The next time I’m having a little fun on my own account, I reckon you’ll mind your own business!”