Spring, smiting1 with soft, warm hands, had come like a miracle, and now lingered for a dreamy spell before bursting into full-blown summer. The snow had left the bottoms and valleys and nestled only on the north slopes of the ice-scarred ridges2. The glacial drip was already in evidence, and every creek3 in roaring spate4. Each day the sun rose earlier and stayed later. It was now chill day by three o'clock and mellow5 twilight6 at nine. Soon a golden circle would be drawn7 around the sky, and deep midnight become bright as high noon. The willows8 and aspens had long since budded, and were now decking themselves in liveries of fresh young green, and the sap was rising in the pines.
Mother nature had heaved her waking sigh and gone about her brief business. Crickets sang of nights in the stilly cabins, and in the sunshine mosquitoes crept from out hollow logs and snug9 crevices10 among the rocks,—big, noisy, harmless fellows, that had procreated the year gone, lain frozen through the winter, and were now rejuvenated11 to buzz through swift senility to second death. All sorts of creeping, crawling, fluttering life came forth12 from the warming earth and hastened to mature, reproduce, and cease. Just a breath of balmy air, and then the long cold frost again—ah! they knew it well and lost no time. Sand martins were driving their ancient tunnels into the soft clay banks, and robins13 singing on the spruce-garbed islands. Overhead the woodpecker knocked insistently14, and in the forest depths the partridge boom-boomed and strutted15 in virile16 glory.
But in all this nervous haste the Yukon took no part. For many a thousand miles it lay cold, unsmiling, dead. Wild fowl17, driving up from the south in wind-jamming wedges, halted, looked vainly for open water, and quested dauntlessly on into the north. From bank to bank stretched the savage18 ice. Here and there the water burst through and flooded over, but in the chill nights froze solidly as ever. Tradition has it that of old time the Yukon lay unbroken through three long summers, and on the face of it there be traditions less easy of belief.
So summer waited for open water, and the tardy19 Yukon took to stretching of days and cracking its stiff joints20. Now an air-hole ate into the ice, and ate and ate; or a fissure21 formed, and grew, and failed to freeze again. Then the ice ripped from the shore and uprose bodily a yard. But still the river was loth to loose its grip. It was a slow travail22, and man, used to nursing nature with pigmy skill, able to burst waterspouts and harness waterfalls, could avail nothing against the billions of frigid23 tons which refused to run down the hill to Bering Sea.
On Split-up Island all were ready for the break-up. Waterways have ever been first highways, and the Yukon was the sole highway in all the land. So those bound up-river pitched their poling-boats and shod their poles with iron, and those bound down caulked24 their scows and barges25 and shaped spare sweeps with axe26 and drawing-knife. Jacob Welse loafed and joyed in the utter cessation from work, and Frona joyed with him in that it was good. But Baron27 Courbertin was in a fever at the delay. His hot blood grew riotous28 after the long hibernation29, and the warm sunshine dazzled him with warmer fancies.
"Oh! Oh! It will never break! Never!" And he stood gazing at the surly ice and raining politely phrased anathema30 upon it. "It is a conspiracy31, poor La Bijou, a conspiracy!" He caressed32 La Bijou like it were a horse, for so he had christened the glistening33 Peterborough canoe.
Frona and St. Vincent laughed and preached him the gospel of patience, which he proceeded to tuck away into the deepest abysses of perdition till interrupted by Jacob Welse.
"Look, Courbertin! Over there, south of the bluff34. Do you make out anything? Moving?"
"Yes; a dog."
"It moves too slowly for a dog. Frona, get the glasses."
Courbertin and St. Vincent sprang after them, but the latter knew their abiding-place and returned triumphant35. Jacob Welse put the binoculars36 to his eyes and gazed steadily37 across the river. It was a sheer mile from the island to the farther bank, and the sunglare on the ice was a sore task to the vision.
"It is a man." He passed the glasses to the Baron and strained absently with his naked eyes. "And something is up."
"He creeps!" the baron exclaimed. "The man creeps, he crawls, on hand and knee! Look! See!" He thrust the glasses tremblingly into Frona's hands.
Looking across the void of shimmering38 white, it was difficult to discern a dark object of such size when dimly outlined against an equally dark background of brush and earth. But Frona could make the man out with fair distinctness; and as she grew accustomed to the strain she could distinguish each movement, and especially so when he came to a wind-thrown pine. Sue watched painfully. Twice, after tortuous39 effort, squirming and twisting, he failed in breasting the big trunk, and on the third attempt, after infinite exertion40, he cleared it only to topple helplessly forward and fall on his face in the tangled41 undergrowth.
"It is a man." She turned the glasses over to St. Vincent. "And he is crawling feebly. He fell just then this side of the log."
"Does he move?" Jacob Welse asked, and, on a shake of St. Vincent's head, brought his rifle from the tent.
He fired six shots skyward in rapid succession. "He moves!" The correspondent followed him closely. "He is crawling to the bank. Ah! . . . No; one moment . . . Yes! He lies on the ground and raises his hat, or something, on a stick. He is waving it." (Jacob Welse fired six more shots.) "He waves again. Now he has dropped it and lies quite still."
All three looked inquiringly to Jacob Welse.
He shrugged42 his shoulders. "How should I know? A white man or an
Indian; starvation most likely, or else he is injured."
"But he may be dying," Frona pleaded, as though her father, who had done most things, could d............