fellow set about, in the wisest possible way, to
conquer Muir. He was not obtrusive, never "butted in"; never offended by
a too affectionate tongue. He listened silently to discussions on his
merits, those first days; but when Muir's comparisons of the brilliant
dogs of his acquaintance with Stickeen grew too "odious" Stickeen would
rise, yawn openly and retire to a distance, not slinkingly, but with
tail up, and lie down again out of earshot of such calumnies. When we
landed after a day's journey Stickeen was always the first ashore,
exploring for field mice and squirrels; but when we would start to the
woods, the mountains or the glaciers the dog would join us, coming
mysteriously from the forest. When our paths separated, Stickeen,
looking to me for permission, would follow Muir, trotting at first
behind him, but gradually ranging alongside.

After a few days Muir changed his tone, saying, "There's more in that
wee beastie than I thought"; and before a week passed Stickeen's victory
was complete; he slept at Muir's feet, went with him on all his rambles;
and even among dangerous crevasses or far up the steep slopes of granite
mountains the little dog's splendid tail would be seen ahead of Muir,
waving cheery signals to his new-found human companion.

Our canoe was light and easily propelled. Our outfit was very simple,
for this was to be a quick voyage and there were not to be so many
missionary visits this time. It was principally a voyage of discovery;
we were in search of the glacier that we had lost. Perched in the high
stern sat our captain, Lot Tyeen, massive and capable, handling his
broad steering paddle with power and skill. In front of him Joe and
Billy pulled oars, Joe, a strong young man, our cook, hunter and best
oarsman; Billy, a lad of seventeen, our interpreter and Joe's assistant.
Towards the bow, just behind the mast, sat Muir and I, each with a
paddle in his hands. Stickeen slumbered at our feet or gazed into our
faces when our conversation interested him. When we began to discuss a
landing place he would climb the high bow and brace himself on the top
of the beak, an animated figure-head, ready to jump into the water when
we were about to camp.

Our route was different from that of '79. Now we struck through Wrangell
Narrows, that tortuous and narrow passage between Mitkof and Kupreanof
Islands, past Norris Glacier with its far-flung shaft of ice appearing
above the forests as if suspended in a