ashed out of the sand, to see it appear
bright and shining in the black sand in the bottom of the pan, is
really worth while. It is first-hand contact with Nature's stores of
wealth.

I went up to Discovery for the last time with my camera slung over my
shoulder, and my note-book in hand to take a final survey of the
miners and to hear for the last time their exultant talk. I found
them exceedingly cheerful, even buoyant.

The men who had gone in with ten days' provisions, the tenderfoot
miners, the men "with a cigarette and a sandwich," had gone out.
Those who remained were men who knew their business and were resolute
and self-sustaining.

There was a crowd of such men around the land-office tents and many
filings were made. Nearly every man had his little phial of gold to
show. No one was loud, but every one seemed to be quietly confident
and replied to my questions in a low voice, "Well, you can safely say
the country is all right."

The day was fine like September in Wisconsin. The lake as I walked
back to it was very alluring. My mind returned again and again to
the things I had left behind for so long. My correspondence, my
books, my friends, all the literary interests of my life, began to
reassert their dominion over me. For some time I had realized that
this was almost an ideal spot for camping or mining. Just over in the
wild country toward Teslin Lake, herds of caribou were grazing. Moose
and bear were being killed daily, rich and unknown streams were
waiting for the gold pan, the pick and the shovel, but--it was not
for me! I was ready to return--eager to return.

THE FREEMAN OF THE HILLS

I have no master but the wind,
My only liege the sun;
All bonds and ties I leave behind,
Free as the wolf I run.
My master wind is passionless,
He neither chides nor charms;
He fans me or he freezes me,
And helps are quick as harms.

He never turns to injure me,
And when his voice is high
I crouch behind a rock and see
His storm of snows go by.
He too is subject of the sun,
As all things earthly are,
Where'er he flies, where'er I run,
We know our kingly star.

THE VOICE OF THE MAPLE TREE

I am worn with the dull-green spires of fir,
I am tired of endless talk of gold,
I long for the cricket's cheery whirr,
And the song that the maples sang of old.
O the beauty and learning and light