Below, it seems like the constant wooing of the sea that wins the offering from this wealth of purity, instead of the voluntary act of this giant of the Arctic zone.

For twenty-four hours the awful grandeur of these scenes was gloried in, when Captain Hunter gave the order to draw the anchor and steam away.  The whistles call the passengers back to the steamer, where they were soon comparing specimens, viewing instantaneous photographs, hiding bedraggled clothing, casting away tattered mufflers, and telling of hair-breadth escapes from peril and death.  Many a tired head sought an early pillow, and floated away in dreams of ghoulish icebergs, until the call for breakfast disclosed to opening eyes that the boat was anchored in the

Beautiful harbor of Sitka.

The steamer’s whistle is the signal for a holiday in all Alaska ports, and Sitka is no exception to the rule.  Six o’clock in the morning, but the sleepy town had awakened to the fact of our arrival, and the inhabitants were out in force to greet friends or sell their canoes.  There are some 1,500 people living in Sitka, including all races.  The harbor is the most beautiful a fertile brain can imagine.  Exquisitely moulded islands are scattered about in the most enchanting way, all shapes and sizes, with now and then a little garden patch, and ever verdant with native woods and grasses and charming rockeries.  As far out as the eye can reach the beautiful isles break the cold sea into bewitching inlets and lure the mariner to shelter from evil outside waves.

The village nestles between giant mountains on a lowland curve surrounded by verdure too dense to be penetrated with the eye, and too far to try to walk—­which is a good excuse for tired feet.  The first prominent feature to meet the eye on land is a large square house, two stories high, located on a rocky eminence near the shore, and overlooking the entire town and harbor.  Once it was a model dwelling of much pretension, with its spacious apartments, hard-wood six-inch plank floors, elaborately-carved decorations, stained-glass windows, and its amusement and refreshment halls.  All betoken the former elegance of the Russian governor’s home, which was supported with such pride and magnificence as will never be seen there again.  The walls are crumbling, the windows broken, and the old oaken stairways will soon be sinking to earth again, and its only life will be on the page of history.

[Illustration:  Devil’s Thumb, Alaska.  Reached via the Union Pacific Ry.]

The mission-school hospital, chapel, and architectural buildings occupied much of the tourists’ time, and some were deeply interested.  There are eighteen missionaries in Sitka, under the Presbyterian jurisdiction, trying to educate and Christianize the Indians.  They are doing a noble work, but it does seem a hopeless task when one goes among the Indian homes, sees the filth, smells the vile odors, and studies the native habits.