April, 1919 
FOREST 
AND STREAM 
171 
THE BARD OF THE KUSKOKWIM 
C. EDWARD CONE. A POET OF THE NORTHLAND TELLS OF HIS EXPERIENCES WITH 
A FISH-WHEEL WHILE TRYING TO PROVIDE FOR A LARGE FAMILY OF MALAMUTES 
By JOHN P. HOLMAN. Associate Editor of FOREST AND STREAM 
L ast spring, 
during one of 
those long 
northern evenings of 
late twilight, we 
were sitting in the 
lobby of the Crescent 
Hotel, Anchorage, 
Alaska, talking of 
men and things and 
waiting for it to 
grow dark enough 
so we could go to 
bed with clear con- 
sciences, when the 
door opened and a 
man stepped briskly 
into the room. 
“Ah, Mr. Cone!” 
exlaimed Redwood, 
our genial host, and 
he then introduced 
us to a man about 
fifty years of age on 
whose weatherbeaten 
face was written 
many a tale of hardship. The smile he 
gave in greeting portrayed a kindly dis- 
position, full of the philosophy of life 
and there was a curious twist about the 
comers of his mouth that bespoke a depth 
of humor. Redwood had introduced him 
as the “Bard of the Kuskokwim” and 
then hastened to explain that Mr. Cone 
was a poet of some repute among his fel- 
low townsmen. We became interested at 
once and begged him to recite some of 
his verses. He reluctantly did so and 
amused us for an hour or more with 
many original pieces, portraying life in 
the north. A few days later I visited 
him at his cabin on the outskirts of town 
and enjoyed reading some more of his 
poems and stories. They were all filled 
with the spirit of the North and told in 
a very novel and picturesque way. 
M r. cone is a 
real pioneer of 
Alaska, hav- 
ing come to the 
country away back 
in the eighties and 
has trapped and 
prospected over a 
large part of the 
country. While pro- 
specting along the 
Kuskokwim River 
he had a tragic ex- 
perience with a fish- 
wheel, which he has 
put into verse. A 
fish-wheel is an in- 
genious contrivance 
which is just what 
its name implies — 
a large wheel, an- 
chored in the stream 
and turned by the 
c u r r e n t — it has 
broad paddles upon 
which the fish, and 
especially the salmon, which run up most 
of the Alaskan streams during the early 
months of summer in great hordes, are 
lifted out of the water and deposited in 
a box arranged for that purpose. Some- 
times large catches are made in this man- 
ner, but in Mr. Cone’s case, like many 
other things in life, it didn’t work just 
as he had expected it would, but I will 
let him tell his own story: 
I ’D been prospecting for a year. 
Was broke, and feeling blue. 
And was strictly on the hustle 
For something I could do. 
I met a wise guy on the trail 
(They called him “Windy Jim”) 
And he said, “Go build a fish-wheel 
And fish the Kuskokwim.” 
“And when the wheel is finished, sir, 
You’ll never more be broke 
For all that you will have to do 
Is sit around and smoke. 
And watch the fish fall in the box. 
And dollars in the poke.” 
And among some other things. 
That all-wise guy agreed, 
That there was money to be made 
In taking dogs to feed. 
“You may take fifty dogs,” he said. 
At five per month for each; 
Why, talk about your “high finance” 
My boy, it’s out of reach.” 
That gaudy scheme looked good to 
So I quickly set to work 
To build that magic fish-wheel. 
And you bet I didn’t shirk. 
For two whole solid weeks I toiled 
Just twenty hours a day; 
And at last the wheel was finished. 
And I was feeling gay. 
And when I had it good and safe 
At anchor in the stream, 
I went and hunted up some dogs. 
To finish out that dream. 
I couldn’t reach that “high finance ” 
Not even with a pole! 
I fed about a dozen dogs — 
They left me in a hole. 
For though that wheel kept rolling 
’round, 
It caught but little fish ; 
To wring that wise guy’s windy neck. 
Was now my ardent wish. 
I had to feed those hungry dogs! 
And therein lies the rub: 
In lieu of fish I had to feed 
My scanty stock of grub. 
me. Those malamutes seemed to think 
That I was all to blame; 
They seemed to think it was my fault 
The salmon never came. 
For every time I came around. 
They’d look at me and growl; 
And when a fish fell in the box. 
They’d all begin to howl. 
Whene’er I think about those dogs. 
It almost makes me weep! 
Through them I lost the little chance 
I might have had for sleep. 
There is a gray old trader there. 
Of whom I want to tell; 
Though I may never pay him, 
I shall always wish him well! 
He’d listen to my woeful tale 
About my lack of cash, 
And then he’d let me have some 
grub. 
Which showed that he was rash. 
I handed him a gold-piece once. 
He almost had a fit! 
And now I’m sure he never in 
The least expected it. 
But may God bless that trader! 
If it hadn’t been for him. 
I’d have starved to death while fish- 
ing 
Upon the Kuskokwim. 
