WILD PARKS OF THE WEST 9 



this cool reserve, but I fear few would care to 

 read their names, although everybody, I am sure, 

 would love them could they see them blooming 

 and rejoicing at home. 



On my last visit to the region about Kotzebue 

 Sound, near the middle of September, 1881, the 

 weather was so fine and mellow that it suggested 

 the Indian summer of the Eastern States. The 

 winds were hushed, the tundra glowed in creamy 

 golden sunshine, and the colors of the ripe foli- 

 age of the heathworts, willows, and birch — red, 

 purple, and yellow, in pure bright tones — were 

 enriched with those of berries which were scat- 

 tered everywhere, as if they had been showered 

 from the clouds like hail. When I was back a 

 mile or two from the shore, reveling in this color- 

 glory, and thinking how fine it would be could I 

 cut a square of the tundra sod of conventional 

 picture size, frame it, and hang it among the 

 paintings on my study walls at home, saying to 

 myself, " Such a Nature painting taken at ran- 

 dom from any part of the thousand-mile bog 

 would make the other pictures look dim and 

 coarse," I heard merry shouting, and, looking 

 round, saw a band of Eskimos — men, women, 

 and children, loose and hairy like wild animals 

 — running towards me. I could not guess at 

 first what they were seeking, for they seldom 

 leave the shore ; but soon they told me, as they 

 threw themselves down, sprawling and laughing, 



