throughout the year. It is rainy, however,--so much so that
hay-making will hardly ever be extensively engaged in here, whatever
the future may show in the way of the development of mines, forests,
and fisheries. This rainy weather, however, is of good quality, the
best of the kind I ever experienced, mild in temperature, mostly
gentle in its fall, filling the fountains of the rivers and keeping
the whole land fresh and fruitful, while anything more delightful
than the shining weather in the midst of the rain, the great round
sun-days of July and August, may hardly be found anywhere, north or
south. An Alaska summer day is a day without night. In the Far North,
at Point Barrow, the sun does not set for weeks, and even here in
southeastern Alaska it is only a few degrees below the horizon at its
lowest point, and the topmost colors of the sunset blend with those
of the sunrise, leaving no gap of darkness between. Midnight is only
a low noon, the middle point of the gloaming. The thin clouds that
are almost always present are then colored yellow and red, making a
striking advertisement of the sun's progress beneath the horizon. The
day opens slowly. The low arc of light steals around to the
northeastward with gradual increase of height and span and intensity
of tone; and when at length the sun appears, it is without much of
that stirring, impressive pomp, of flashing, awakening, triumphant
energy, suggestive of the Bible imagery, a bridegroom coming out of
his chamber and rejoicing like a strong man to run a race. The red
clouds with yellow edges dissolve in hazy dimness; the islands, with
grayish-white ruffs of mist about them, cast ill-defined shadows on
the glistening waters, and the whole down-bending firmament becomes
pearl-gray. For three or four hours after sunrise there is nothing
especially impressive in the landscape. The sun, though seemingly
unclouded, may almost be looked in the face, and the islands and
mountains, with their wealth of woods and snow and varied beauty of