me a rumor of an Indian village on the
neighboring shore. We were already past it, a half hour or more, but
canoes were visible. Now this was an episode. Jack, the cabin-boy, slid
back the blind; and as I sat up in my bunk, bolstered among the pillows,
I saw the green shore, moist with dew and sparkling in the morning
light, sweep slowly by--an endless panorama. There is no dust here, not
a particle. There is rain at intervals, and a heavy dew-fall, and
sometimes a sea fog that makes it highly advisable to suspend all
operations until it has lifted. After coffee I found the deck gaily
peopled. The steamer was running at half speed; and shortly she took a
big turn in a beautiful lagoon and went back on her course far enough to
come in sight of the Indian village, but we did not stop there. It seems
that one passage we were about to thread was reached at a wrong stage
of the tide; and, instead of waiting there for better water, we loafed
about for a couple of hours, enjoying it immensely, every soul of us.

Vancouver Island lay upon our left. It was half veiled in mist, or
smoke; and its brilliant constellation of sky-piercing peaks, green to
the summit, with glints of sunshine gilding the chasms here and there,
and rich shadows draping them superbly, reminded me of Nukahiva, one of
the Marquesas Islands--the one where Herman Melville found his famed
Typee. It seems extravagant to associate any feature in the Alaskan
archipelago with the most romantic island in the tropical sea; but there
are points of similarity, notwithstanding the geographical
discrepancy--daring outlines, magnificent cloud and atmospheric effects,
and a fragrance, a pungent balsamic odor ever noticeable. This
impalpable, invisible balm permeates everything; it is wafted out over
the sea to us, even as the breath of the Spice Islands is borne over the
waves to the joy of the passing mariner.

Surely there can be no finer tonic for a fagged fellow with feeble lungs
than this glorious Alaskan air. There is no danger of surfeit here; the
over-sweet is not likely to be met with in this latitude; and, then, if
one really feels the need of change, why, here is a fishing station. The
forest is trimmed along the shore so that there is scant room for a few
shanties between the water and the wilderness. A dock runs but a little
way out into the sea, for the shores are precipitous and one finds a
goodly number of fathoms only a few yards from the shingle.

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