man bereft of reason, who sees strange visions and whose thoughts are
light with wine, I came to Haines Mission by the sea."

Sitka Charley threw back the tent-flaps. It was midday. To the south,
just clearing the bleak Henderson Divide, poised the cold-disked sun. On
either hand the sun-dogs blazed. The air was a gossamer of glittering
frost. In the foreground, beside the trail, a wolf-dog, bristling with
frost, thrust a long snout heavenward and mourned.




WHERE THE TRAIL FORKS


"Must I, then, must I, then, now leave this town--
And you, my love, stay here?"--_Schwabian Folk-song_.

The singer, clean-faced and cheery-eyed, bent over and added water to a
pot of simmering beans, and then, rising, a stick of firewood in hand,
drove back the circling dogs from the grub-box and cooking-gear. He was
blue of eye, and his long hair was golden, and it was a pleasure to look
upon his lusty freshness. A new moon was thrusting a dim horn above the
white line of close-packed snow-capped pines which ringed the camp and
segregated it from all the world. Overhead, so clear it was and cold,
the stars danced with quick, pulsating movements. To the southeast an
evanescent greenish glow heralded the opening revels of the aurora
borealis. Two men, in the immediate foreground, lay upon the bearskin
which was their bed. Between the skin and naked snow was a six-inch
layer of pine boughs. The blankets were rolled back. For shelter, there