<h2><SPAN name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></SPAN>CHAPTER XIII.</h2>
<h3>OFF FOR GOLOVIN BAY.</h3>
<div class="figleft"> <ANTIMG src="images/db.png" width-obs="56" height-obs="150" alt="B" title="B" /></div>
<p class="firstp">Y October twelfth the weather began
to be quite wintry, with snow flurries,
cold wind, and a freezing ground. All
now felt their time short in which to
prepare for winter, change residence,
and get settled. After many days of
planning, in which eight or ten persons
were concerned, it was finally decided
that we should go to Golovin Bay.
The head missionary, and one or
two of his assistants from that place, had been with
us part of the time during the great storm, so we
were quite well acquainted, and we would be near
the Mission.</p>
<p>The "boys," as we called the young men for
short, would build a cabin in which the funds of the
women were also to be pooled. Three of the boys
had gone, some weeks before, to Golovin to assist
in the erection of a new Mission Home, twelve
miles further down the coast; but as a shipload of
mission supplies had been lost at sea, including
building materials, their work was much hampered,
and it was not expected that the new home would
be completed, though sadly needed for the accommodation<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></SPAN></span>
of the constantly increasing numbers
of Eskimo children for which it was intended.</p>
<p>In this case, no new helpers could be added to
the missionary force, though Miss L., a tall, intelligent
young woman, was to be placed in the Home
kitchen as cook, and would accompany us to Golovin.
It was decided, then, that the restaurant be
closed immediately before the last boat left Nome
for Golovin, as it would be impossible to get there
after the last steamer had gone until the ice was
solid, and winter trails were good over the hills.
Most of us did not care to remain so long where
we were, and made ready to sail on the small coast
steamer "Elk," scheduled to leave Nome October
eighteenth.</p>
<p>On the evening of the sixteenth the doors of the
"Star" were formally closed. We had had a rush
up to the last moment, and all hands were completely
tired out. It had been a long pull, and a
steady pull, and the thought uppermost in the
minds of us four women was to get to Golovin and
rest. Even Alma sighed for a vacation from hard
work, feeling that the roadhouse, if they opened
one, must wait until she was rested.</p>
<p>Mary wished to remain at Nome for a while, and
come later by dog-team when the trails were good.
She would take a day after we had gone to finish
storing away the "Star" outfit for the next summer,
and make the rooms tidy, afterwards visiting
acquaintances, and doing shopping.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>For two days after closing the "Star" we were
busy as bees, but at a change of occupation. We
bought food supplies, coal-oil, and warm clothing,
receiving parcels of the latter, including yarns for
winter knitting, at the hands of the stewardess of
the "St. Paul," who had kindly made our purchases
in San Francisco at better prices (for us) than we
found at Nome. Some bought furs, when they
could find them, though these were scarce and
costly, and each person carried his own bedding.
Letters to the outside were written and posted,
mails collected, freight and other bills paid, and
tickets secured on the steamer.</p>
<p>For my own part, I now found some kindly
helper with strong arms whenever I had a trunk,
bag, or box to lift or transfer, and no remuneration
for services thus rendered beyond a smiling,
"thank you very much," was ever accepted.</p>
<p>What a strong, hearty, clean, and good-natured
lot were these Swedes. How helpful, sympathetic,
and jolly withal. It was easy for them to see the
clear, bright side of everything, and to turn an innocent
joke on themselves occasionally; for one told
on another is never so effective and enjoyable as a
joke on oneself; but there were often those with
tears in their eyes, and a homesick feeling at their
heart upon bidding farewell to friends who were
leaving for the outside.</p>
<p>With the approach of a long, hard winter in
the Arctic, so unknown and untried by many, with<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></SPAN></span>
a distance of thousands of miles of ocean soon
to roll between them, it was many times difficult to
say a careless good-bye. For those remaining in
Alaska, who could foresee the future? Was it to
be a fortunate and happy one, or would it disclose
only misfortune, with, perchance, sickness and
death? Would these partings be followed by future
happy meetings, or were they now final? Who
could tell?</p>
<p>Among those constantly sailing for the outside
were those who left regretfully, and those who left
joyfully; there was the husband and father returning
to his loved ones with "pokes," well filled with
nuggets, and the wherewithal to make them more
happy than ever before.</p>
<p>There were those returning to sweethearts who
daily watched and waited longingly for their home-coming
which would be more than joyful. There
were those leaving who would come again when
the long winter was over, to renew their search for
gold already successfully begun; and they were
satisfied.</p>
<p>There were many who left the gold fields with discouragement
depicted upon their every feature.
They had been entirely unable to adapt themselves
to circumstances so different to any they had before
known, and they had not possessed the foresight
and judgment to decide affairs when the
critical moments came. Perhaps a fondness for
home, and dear ones, pulled too persistently upon<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></SPAN></span>
the heartstrings; nothing here looked good to them,
and they went home disgusted with the whole
world. Unless a man or woman can quickly adjust
himself or herself to changed conditions, and has a
willingness to turn his or her hand to any honorable
labor, he would better remain at home, and allow
others to go to Alaska.</p>
<p>If a man goes there with pockets already well
lined, intending to operate in mining stocks, he
still needs the adjustable spirit, because of the
new, crude, and compulsory manners of living. He
must be able to forget the luxury of silver spoons,
delicate hands, soft beds, and steam heat; enjoying,
or at least accommodating himself to the use of
tin spoons, coarse food, no bed, and less heat, if his
place and circumstances for a time demand such
loss of memory.</p>
<p>A bountiful supply of hopefulness is also necessary,
in order, at times, to make the darkness and
discomfort of the present endurable, and this will
wonderfully cheer and create patience. Thousands
of persons who were ill qualified in these
and other respects had journeyed to Alaska, only
to return, homesick, penniless, and completely discouraged,
who never should have left their home
firesides.</p>
<p>Not so with the Swedish people. They are accustomed
to a cold climate, hard work, and conditions
needing patience and perseverance, without
great luxuries in their homes, and being strong<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></SPAN></span>
and hearty physically, they are well fitted, both by
nature and practice, for life in the new gold fields
of Alaska. There were more reasons than one for
their success in the far Northwest, and a little
study of cause and effect would disclose the truth,
when it will be found that it was not all "luck"
which made so many successful.</p>
<p>Our last day at Nome is a confused memory of
trunks, boxes, bags, barrels, dog-teams, tickets,
bills, lunches, tables, dishes, and numerous other
things. Tramping hurriedly through busy, dirty
streets, and heavy, sandy beach, with arms loaded
with small baggage (we had neither parrots nor
poodles) making inquiries at stores and offices,
doing innumerable errands, saying good-byes, and
having good-luck wishes called after us; and then,
when the sun had disappeared for the day, and
night was almost upon us, we turned our backs
upon our summer camp, and hastened to our winter
home.</p>
<p>At the water's edge small pieces of ice washed
up and down with a clicking sound upon the sands,
as if to give us notice of approaching winter, but
the ocean was almost as smooth as a floor. No
breath of wind disturbed the surface, and only
a gentle swell came landward at intervals to remind
us of its still mighty, though hidden, power.</p>
<p>Then we were all in readiness to leave. A little
boat was drawn upon the sand. Into it all small
baggage was tossed. It was then pushed out<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></SPAN></span>
farther by men in high rubber boots standing in the
water.</p>
<p>"I cannot get into the boat," laughed Little
Alma, "I will get my feet wet."</p>
<p>"Not if I can help it," answered a stalwart sailor,
who immediately picked her up bodily and set her
down in the boat, repeating the operation three
times, in spite of the screams and laughter of Miss
L., Ricka and myself. Ricka and I were only of medium
height, but Miss L. was a good six-footer,
and when we were safely in the boat, and she had
been picked up in the sailor's strong arms, if she
did not scream for herself, some of us did it for
her, thinking she would certainly go head first into
the water; but no, she was carefully placed, like
the rest of us, in the boat.</p>
<p>After getting settled, and the final good-byes
were waved, the men sprang in, those on shore
pushed the boat off; we were again on the bosom
of old Behring Sea. Smaller and fainter grew all
forms upon the shore. Darker and deeper grew
the waters beneath us. The lights of a few belated
steamers, twinkled in the distance, their reflections,
beautiful as jewels, quietly fixed upon the
placid waters. Like a thing of sense, it seemed to
me, the great ocean, full of turmoil, rage, and fury
so recently, it would show us, before we left, how
lamblike, upon occasions, it could be; and all old
scores against it were then and there forgotten.</p>
<p>A dark form soon lay just before us. "Where<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></SPAN></span>
is the 'Elk,'" I asked of a sailor rowing, looking
about in the gathering darkness which had rapidly
fallen.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="i184" id="i184"></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/184.jpg"><ANTIMG src="images/184t.jpg" width-obs="400" height-obs="229" alt="" title="" /></SPAN> CLAIM NUMBER FOUR, ANVIL CREEK, NOME.</div>
<p>"There it is," pointing to a black hulk which
lay sullenly, without a spark of light visible, close
to us.</p>
<p>"But do they not know we are coming? Have
they no light on board? How can we get upon
deck?" we asked anxiously.</p>
<p>"O, they will bring a lantern, I guess," laughed
the sailor, then thinking to put us at our ease, he
called lustily as he rested himself at his oars. Not
getting a reply, he shouted again.</p>
<p>Presently two men appeared with as many
lanterns.</p>
<p>"Here, you fellows, get a move on, and help
these ladies on board, will you? Were you asleep,
hey?"</p>
<p>"Wall, no, not 'zactly, sah, but I'se done been
working hard today," it was the colored cook replying,
as he rubbed his sleepy eyes.</p>
<p>"Haul up alongside this dory," said the other
man as he put his lantern down, "and let the ladies
get into that first, then we'll help 'em up here."</p>
<p>With that we climbed out as we best could in
the darkness, one after another, the boys assisting,
until we all stood laughing in the little cabin, and
counted noses.</p>
<p>"Are we all here?" asked Mr. G., who, as usual
had a thoughtful care over all.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"All here, I think, but the baggage. How about
that?" said I.</p>
<p>"I'll see to that," and he was already on deck,
while I continued counting.</p>
<p>"Alma, Ricka, Miss L., Mr. G., Mr. L., Mr. B.,
and myself—the lucky number of seven. How
fortunate we are. We are sure to have good luck.
Too bad Mary is not here, but then we would not
be seven," and we were all laughing and talking at
the same time.</p>
<p>In the cabin there was only one lamp, and that
was swung over the table, looking in all its smoky
smelliness as if it had hung there for ages without a
scrubbing. The table was covered with dirty
dishes scattered upon an oilcloth spread. The
room smelled of fish, tobacco, and coal-oil, and we
were obliged to go to the door now and then for
fresh air. There was no fire, nor heat, neither was
there a place for any. Rows of berths in two tiers
lined each side of the cabin, but they were supplied
with mattresses only. Dark curtains hung on
wires before the berths, and these would furnish us
with our only privacy on the trip.</p>
<p>Finally we selected our berths, assorted our luggage,
and sat down to rest. We were disappointed
in the "Elk." She was not a "St. Paul," that was
certain. The colored cook soon entered. His
apologies were profuse.</p>
<p>"Hope de ladies will 'scuze de state ob dis year<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></SPAN></span>
room, but I'se done been mighty busy today, and
will hab tings fine tomorer."</p>
<p>"That's all right, Jim, if you only give us a good
dinner tomorrow. Can you do it?" asked Mr. L.</p>
<p>"Yas, sah, dis chile good cook when de tings
are gibben him to cook, but when dere's no taters,
no fresh meat, no chicken, no fruit, den it's mighty
hard to set up fine meals. Dat's de truf!" and Jim
nodded his woolly head emphatically at the frequent
undesirable state of his larder.</p>
<p>"Prices high heah, sah, but dis old man almos'
fru wid de business; de las' trip ob de 'Elk' dis
summah, an' I'se glad of it," and he disappeared in
the galley carrying his arms full of dishes.</p>
<p>When the table was cleared and Jim had spread
an old and much rumpled red cover over it, I took
from my basket a small square clock, and winding
it up with its little key, started it going. It was a
musical clock I had purchased when in Nome, of
a small boy about to leave for the outside. It had
been given him by a lady, and he had grown tired
of it, his mind being so much upon his contemplated
long journey. He would sell it for three dollars,
he said, and I paid the money, needing a time
piece, and having none. So now the little music
box ticked off its music to the entertainment of all.</p>
<p>However, we were all tired and the place was
cold, so after we had taken our last look at the
lights of Nome, scattered as they were along the
shore for miles in the darkness, we turned in for<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></SPAN></span>
the night, all dressed as we were, and drew the curtains
around us. The long, deep-toned whistle of
the "Elk," had sounded some time before, and we
were headed east, making our way quietly over the
smooth waters.</p>
<p>Another chapter of our lives had begun. What
would the end be, I wondered.</p>
<p>During the night I was awakened by men running
and shouting on deck. The steamer stopped.
Somebody went out to inquire the cause. In a little
while he returned, saying that four men had been
picked up, nearly frozen, in an open boat which
was leaking badly, and they were found just in time.
Dry clothes, with food and hot drinks, and they
would be all right again; so I turned over and tried
to sleep, but the men lounged about, smoking and
talking with the captain a good share of the night,
so that sleep was almost out of the question.</p>
<p>How I wished for fresh air! How I hated the
tobacco smoke! But we could say nothing, for the
men had no beds, no other place to sit, and it was
too cold on deck. We must be patient, and I was
patient, feeling thankful that the lives of the four
men had been saved, if each one did smoke like a
volcano and come near choking us to death.</p>
<p>After a while there was another commotion.
What now? Their five dogs had been left in the
leaking dory, which was trailing behind us, the boat
was swamping, and the animals were almost
drowned. They were whining, crying, and soaking<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></SPAN></span>
wet; so the "Elk" was again stopped, the dogs
taken on board, along with some of the miners'
outfits, and we again started on our way.</p>
<p>The men said their dory had been blown ten
miles out to sea by a wind many hours before, and
had then sprung a leak, wetting their food, and
threatening them with destruction, when the "Elk"
appeared and took them aboard in the night.</p>
<p>"Wall, yes, we had given ourselves up for lost,
though none said much about it," remarked one of
the saved men next day, in speaking of their experience.
"Some one mentioned God Almighty,
I believe, and I could almost have spoken to Him
myself, but it does look like He had done something
for us, don't it?" said the miner, laughing
quietly, in a pleased, relieved way as he finished.</p>
<p>We were exceedingly glad for their deliverance
from a watery grave, but we pitied ourselves for
our discomforts, until we pictured ourselves in their
forlorn condition, far out from land, at night, in a
leaky boat, without food and freezing; then I found
myself feeling really grateful for the privilege of
sailing on the "Elk," and not discontented as at
first. We would get fresh air enough this winter,
no doubt, to drive away all remembrances of the
air in the little steamer's cabin, which was cold as
well as foul. There were no windows or ports that
we could see; there was doubtless a closed skylight
somewhere, but to keep warm even in our berths
required management. In my hand luggage I carried<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></SPAN></span>
a bright woolen Indian blanket, a souvenir of
St. Michael the year before, in which I now rolled
myself, already dressed in my warmest clothing
and heavy coat.</p>
<p>A light-weight grey blanket was loaned me by
the cook, who had purloined it from the pilot's
bunk, he being on duty and not needing it that
night. This I was rather chary of using, for reasons
of my own, but it was that or nothing, only
the mattress being underneath. On my head I
wore a pink crocheted affair, called sometimes a
"fascinator," which was now used simply and solely
for service, I assured my friends, and not from any
lighter motive,—but my feet! How I should keep
them comfortable while on board was a question.
With my feet cold I would be perfectly miserable,
and although I wore wool hose and high, stout
laced boots, I soon found on going aboard the
"Elk" that to be comfortable I must make a
change.</p>
<p>I said nothing, but turned the situation well over
in mind. At last I found a solution. Going to my
bags once more, on the aside I drew out my new
reindeer skin muckluks, or high fur boots, and
looked at them. What enormous footgear, to be
sure. Could I wear those things? I had put five
good, hard-earned dollars into them, and they were
said to be warm and very comfortable when worn
properly, with hay in the bottoms, and Arctic socks<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></SPAN></span>
over one's hose, but I had no hay and could not
get any.</p>
<p>I had the socks in my trunk, but that was in the
hold of the ship, or somewhere out of my reach.
I held the muckluks in my hands, and slowly turned
them round. Suddenly a bright thought came. I
would pull them on over my shoes. I did it. They
went on easily. I drew the strings attached at the
back of the ankle forward over the instep, crossed
them, carried them back, crossed them a second
time and tied them in front, in order to use up the
strings so they would not trip me in walking. Just
below the knees I pulled a woolen drawstring which
was run into the green flannel, inch-wide heading,
and tied this loosely; then I studied them. Shades
of my buried ancestry! What a fright! My own
mother would never know me. I wanted to scream
with laughter, but could not, for I had performed
the operation in a most surreptitious manner, behind
closed doors (bunk curtains), after the others
had retired.</p>
<p>I had no compunctions of conscience as to putting
my shoes upon the bed, for the mattress was
both sombre and lonely, and as for the muckluks,
they had never been worn by man (and were surely
never made for woman). The most that I could
do was to lie back upon my bed, cram my fascinator
into my mouth, and struggle to suppress my
risibles.</p>
<p>After a time I succeeded, and lay enjoying the<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></SPAN></span>
new sensation of feet and limbs warm and cozy as
if in my mother's warm parlor at home; and then
I slept.</p>
<p>Next morning I kept my berth late. My sleep
had been much broken, and the place was cold.
The bad air had taken my appetite, and there were
already too many in the small cabin for convenience.
Four or five men and three women besides
our own party of seven, crowded in between the
dining table and the berths, filled the small cabin
quite beyond comfort.</p>
<p>The main question in my mind, however, was
how to prevent the company from seeing my feet.
I would put off the evil hour as long as possible,
for they were sure to laugh heartily when they saw
my muckluks, and to take them off—I would not.
Some one brought me a sandwich finally, inquiring
at the same time for my health, but I assured them
it was first class,—I was only resting. Watching
my opportunity, toward noon I slipped out of my
berth quietly and made myself ready for dinner,
keeping my feet well out of sight, for cook Jim had
promised a fine spread for the two o'clock meal.</p>
<p>When it came I was ready. It is said that hunger
is a good sauce, and I believe this is true, for otherwise
I could never have eaten the dinner that day.
Upon a soiled and rumpled white (?) cloth Jim
placed his "big spread," which consisted of whole
jacketed boiled and baked potatoes, meat stew (no<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></SPAN></span>
questions allowed), dried prunes stewed, biscuits,
and fourth rate butter, with tea and coffee.</p>
<div class="figcenter"><SPAN name="i193" id="i193"></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/map1.jpg"><ANTIMG src="images/map1t.jpg" width-obs="247" height-obs="400" alt="" title="" /></SPAN> <SPAN href="images/map2.jpg"><ANTIMG src="images/map2t.jpg" width-obs="243" height-obs="400" alt="" title="" /></SPAN> MAP OF ALASKA.</div>
<p>At only one camp was there a stop made. There
were two or three passengers on board for Bluff
City, a new and prosperous mining camp, composed
chiefly, though so late in the season, of tents.
Lumber and supplies of different kinds had to be
put off. As the entrance to the hold of the ship
where the stores were kept was in our cabin, we had
plenty of fresh air while the doors were all open,
along with the mustiness from below, for several
hours. However, I managed to keep pretty comfortable
and snug in "fascinator" and muckluks,
enveloped as I was in my Indian blanket.</p>
<p>Hearing a bluff, hearty voice which sounded
familiar, I looked around, and in walked a man
whom I had seen at St. Michael the fall before.
He had charge of the eating house there, where my
brother and I had taken our meals for two weeks.
I had not forgotten his kindness in giving me sore
throat medicine when there had been nothing of the
sort to buy, and I was suffering.</p>
<p>This man remembered me well, and sat down to
chat for a little while with us. He was a miner now,
and a successful one, he said, for he was taking out
"big money" from his lay on Daniels Creek, only
five minutes' walk from the beach. I had been informed
of his good fortune before meeting him, so
was ready with congratulations.</p>
<p>He told me of his cabin building, his winter's<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></SPAN></span>
stores and fuel, and seemed in high spirits. Of
course I could not ask him what he meant by "big
money," or what he had taken from his claim, although
it would not here, as in the Klondyke, be
a breach of etiquette to inquire. After a few minutes
chat the man bade us good-bye, and descended
to the small boat alongside, which was to carry him
and his freight ashore.</p>
<p>It was nearly dark by this time, and another
night must be passed on board. Some were complaining
of the cold. Others were shuffling their
feet to get them warm.</p>
<p>"My feet are awfully cold," said Alma, moving
them uneasily about. "Aren't yours, Mrs. Sullivan?"</p>
<p>"Not at all," I replied, trying to look unconcerned,
at the same time putting my feet further
under my skirts, which were not the very short
ones I had worn at Nome. "You know what having
cold feet in this country means, I suppose,
Alma?"</p>
<p>"O, I am not in the least homesick, if that is
what you mean. I am perfectly happy; but—"
(here she glanced down upon the floor in the direction
of my feet) "what have you over your shoes,
any way, to keep so warm, Mrs. Sullivan?"</p>
<p>There was no help for it, and the muckluks had
to come to light, and did. At sight of them they
all shouted, and Alma laughed till the tears ran
down her cheeks.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>"And you have had these on all day without our
seeing them? Where have you kept your feet, in
your pocket?" she persisted.</p>
<p>"Well, no, not exactly, but of course, under the
circumstances, you could hardly expect me to hang
a signboard out to call attention to them, could
you?" I laughed.</p>
<p>"I should say not. Will we all look like that in
muckluks? Is there nothing else we can wear this
winter? They will make our feet look so awfully
large, you see?"</p>
<p>"That's the way we will all look, only a good
deal worse, for some of us have no skirts to cover
them with, as you have," spoke up Mr. G. for the
first time.</p>
<p>"I thought the 'Elk' leaned to the land side
more today than usual," said Mr. B. with a twinkle,
"but now it is explained."</p>
<p>"Bad boy! My muckluks were on that side of
the ship from the first, only they were in my bag
for a while. They are no heavier now than they
were then. You shall have no supper," said I, with
mock severity.</p>
<p>So I kept the fur boots on, in spite of their jokes,
wondering what they would say when I arrived at
Golovin and removed my fascinator (another surprise
I was keeping for them), and contented myself
by thinking I had the laugh on them, when they
complained of cold feet, and my own were so perfectly
comfortable.<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></SPAN></span></p>
<p>At last, on the morning of October twentieth,
with the sun just rising over the snowy hills surrounding
the water, the cliffs on both sides of the
entrance standing out clear and sharp in the cold
morning light, and with one ship already there, we
dropped anchor, being in Golovin Bay. The settlement,
a score of houses, a hotel, a flagstaff or two,
and the Mission.</p>
<p>I now waked the girls, who turned out of their
bunks, dressed as they had been since coming on
board the "Elk," and we made ready to go ashore.
We were out in deep water, still some distance from
the beach, and must again get out into a small boat,
probably for the last time this year. Not all could
get into the boat; we must take turns, but we were
bundled into it some way, and soon we were upon
the sands, a dozen feet from dry land. Again we
were transferred by one man power, as at Nome,
to the sands, which were here frozen quite hard,
and upon which I had the sensation, at first, of
walking with a gunboat attached to each foot.</p>
<p>Some one conducted us to the Mission House,
only a few hundred yards from our landing place,
while the boat went back to the "Elk" for the
others. Miss E., who had come up on the "St.
Paul" with us, and now the housekeeper here,
came running out to welcome all cordially. By her
we were shown into the cozy little parlor, so tidy,
bright and warm that we immediately felt ourselves
again in civilization. Soon Mr. H., the head<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></SPAN></span>
missionary, whom I had already met in Nome,
came in with Miss J., the teacher of the Mission
children. She also had spent some days with us at
Nome. These all made us very welcome, and our
party of seven was soon sitting together before a
good, smoking hot breakfast, to which we did real
justice.</p>
<p>When entering the house I had, upon first removing
my wraps and "fascinator," given my
friends another surprise equal to the one of the
muckluks on the steamer. The day before leaving
Nome I had (surreptitiously again) made a visit to
the hairdresser, and when I left her room I appeared
another woman. My head now, instead of
being covered with long, thin hair, done up hastily
in a twist at the back, had short hair and curled all
over, a great improvement, they all voted, when
the first surprise was over.</p>
<p>My hair, all summer, had been like that of most
women when first in Alaska, falling out so rapidly
that I feared total baldness if something was not
done to prevent. This was the only sure remedy
for the trouble, as I knew from former experience,
and as I again proved, for it entirely stopped coming
out. Ricka soon followed my example, and we,
with Miss J., who had been relieved of her hair by
fever the year before, made almost a colony of
short-haired women, much to the amusement of
some of our party.</p>
<p>After we had eaten our breakfasts, several of us<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></SPAN></span>
set to work at writing letters to send out to Nome
by the "Elk," which would remain a few hours unloading
freight, as this might be our last opportunity
for many weeks, or until the winter mails
were carried by dog-teams over the trails. We fancied
our friends on the outside would be glad to
hear that we had arrived safely at Golovin, and our
pens flew rapidly over the paper. These letters,
finally collected, were placed in the hands of one
of the "Elk's" crew for mailing at Nome, and the
steamer sailed away.</p>
<p>Not all, however, wrote letters. The business
head of the "Star" firm had not been idle, nor writing
letters, and while I wrote Alma was deeply engaged,
well seconded by Ricka, in making arrangements
with Mr. H. by which we could remain in
this Mission House all winter. Before noon it was
decided that we should stay, assisting the missionaries
all in our power until such time as they could
move to their new station, as soon as the ice was
firm enough in the bay to travel upon and the
Home was far enough toward completion. It was
impossible to finish the building now, but so far as
practicable it would be made habitable, and all
necessary and movable articles of furniture would
be carried to the Home, though many large pieces
would be left for our use.</p>
<p>This arrangement included our party of seven,
Mary at Nome, and the three boys at work at this
time on the new Home building, and would do<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></SPAN></span>
away with all necessity for building a cabin, lumber
being expensive and good logs scarce.</p>
<p>This intelligence came just in time for insertion
in our home letters sent away on the "Elk," and it
was a day of rejoicing for at least seven persons
(Miss L. was to go to the Home, but Mary was to
come to us from Nome), who already considered
themselves a "lucky number."</p>
<hr style="width: 65%;" /><p><span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></SPAN></span></p>
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