Wrangell folk, as was reported by Mr. Vanderbilt.

"What can the fellow be up to?" they inquired. "He seems to spend
most of his time among stumps and weeds. I saw him the other day on
his knees, looking at a stump as if he expected to find gold in it.
He seems to have no serious object whatever."

One night when a heavy rainstorm was blowing I unwittingly caused
a lot of wondering excitement among the whites as well as the
superstitious Indians. Being anxious to see how the Alaska trees
behave in storms and hear the songs they sing, I stole quietly away
through the gray drenching blast to the hill back of the town,
without being observed. Night was falling when I set out and it was
pitch dark when I reached the top. The glad, rejoicing storm in
glorious voice was singing through the woods, noble compensation for
mere body discomfort. But I wanted a fire, a big one, to see as well
as hear how the storm and trees were behaving. After long, patient
groping I found a little dry punk in a hollow trunk and carefully
stored it beside my matchbox and an inch or two of candle in an
inside pocket that the rain had not yet reached; then, wiping some
dead twigs and whittling them into thin shavings, stored them with
the punk. I then made a little conical bark hut about a foot high,
and, carefully leaning over it and sheltering it as much as possible
from the driving rain, I wiped and stored a lot of dead twigs,
lighted the candle, and set it in the hut, carefully added pinches of
punk and shavings, and at length got a little blaze, by the light of
which I gradually added larger shavings, then twigs all set on end
astride the inner flame, making the little hut higher and wider. Soon
I had light enough to enable me to select the best dead branches and
large sections of bark, which were set on end, gradually increasing