RECREA T10N. 



mentally returning thanks for his sound 

 judgment, crossed the 49th parallel and 

 entered British Columbia. 



To attempt to tell the story of our 

 trip through the thousand miles of Alas- 

 kan water with its picturesque scenery, 

 would be to repeat an oft told tale. The 

 weather had cleared; and we lounged on 

 the steamer's deck as she glided over a 

 narrow canal-like body of water as 

 smooth as glass and as salt as the sea. 

 We were hemmed in by hills and some- 

 times by mountains, on either side, 

 timber-covered from the water's edge 

 to their very summits, while here and 

 there the white fields of distant glaciers 

 glittered in the sun-light, tempering, at 

 least in our imagination, the rays of the 

 August sun shining down upon us. 



At one point only do we leave this 

 smooth, narrow channel, and feel, for an 

 hour or two, the roll of old ocean. It 

 happens to be at night, and only those 

 awake feel it. To even these it is little 

 more than a lullaby. We open our eyes 

 the next morning on smooth water 

 again, thankful that our trip has all the 

 advantages and none of the disadvan- 

 tages of a sea voyage, and that we are 

 once more in our own country; for since 

 crossing the 49th parallel we have trav- 

 eled across that part of British Colum- 

 bia which is between us and our outly- 

 ing territory of Alaska. The channel 

 along which we are travelling is still 

 narrower than before, while in places, it 

 is little wider than our steamer. The 

 country here, thickly covered with small 

 timber, does not seem to be inhabited; 

 though now and then a spiral of smoke 

 curling above the tree-tops tells of some 

 wood chopper, or some lone fisherman's 

 camp. But on the 9th, house tops are 

 seen in the distance, and we are told 

 that we are approaching Fort Wrangle, 

 where we will land and remain a lew 

 hours. We steam up to the long wharf, 

 and evidently our arrival is a great event 

 in the place, for the few white people 

 living here, and all the other inhab- 

 itants, including Indian men, women, 

 dirty children and dogs, flock to the 



landing to greet us. We all go ashore, as 

 a matter of course, curious to see what 

 manner of place this is, where once was 

 stationed a garrison of United States 

 soldiers. The old Fort Wrangle looks as if 

 the buildings, which the troops occupied, 

 might now be tumbling about their ears, 

 if they had still been here. The other 

 buildings, which stand in a curved line 

 along the shore, are not much better. 



Everything seems to be falling into 

 decay, caused by the dampness which 

 prevails here for so long a period each 

 year. 



Trade is active, and the dirty squaws 

 eagerly offer to our passengers, for sale, 

 their trinkets of various kinds; some of 

 which are evidently of native manufact- 

 ure, but many others just as evidently 

 imported for sale as " curiosities from 

 Alaska." The real curiosities are the 

 '"Totem poles," standing in front of what 

 are clearly the chief houses of the place. 

 At the top of each pole are crude, 

 roughly carved representations of bears, 

 ravens, etc. 



I heard, when in Port Townsend, 

 what to me is a curious assertion regard- 

 ing these "Totems" of Alaska; but 

 coming from the highest authority on 

 such subjects (Judge S., of that place) 

 is entitled to full credence. Such em- 

 blems, when found among rude peo- 

 ples, are usually supposed to appertain in 

 some way to their religion. Judge S. 

 declares these Totems have nothing to 

 do with any religious beliefs, and that 

 they are simply the nursery tales of the 

 Alaskan Indians. In fact, they are 

 what we would call the Mother Goose 

 rhymes of these tribes. This is exactly 

 what they sound like when, with a fac 

 simile of one of these Totems in his 

 hand, the judge tells its story and the 

 wonderful transformation undergone by 

 the whales, the ravens and the butter- 

 flies represented upon them. Fancy 

 one of the old crones we see before us 

 lulling to sleep her dirty-faced baby 

 with a Mother Goose story, read from 

 the long pole which stands in front of 

 the door of her hut. 



TO BE CONTINUED. 



