with quick, pulsating movements.  To the southeast an evanescent greenish glow heralded the opening revels of the aurora borealis.  Two men, in the immediate foreground, lay upon the bearskin which was their bed.  Between the skin and naked snow was a six-inch layer of pine boughs.  The blankets were rolled back.  For shelter, there was a fly at their backs,—­a sheet of canvas stretched between two trees and angling at forty-five degrees.  This caught the radiating heat from the fire and flung it down upon the skin.  Another man sat on a sled, drawn close to the blaze, mending moccasins.  To the right, a heap of frozen gravel and a rude windlass denoted where they toiled each day in dismal groping for the pay-streak.  To the left, four pairs of snowshoes stood erect, showing the mode of travel which obtained when the stamped snow of the camp was left behind.

That Schwabian folk-song sounded strangely pathetic under the cold northern stars, and did not do the men good who lounged about the fire after the toil of the day.  It put a dull ache into their hearts, and a yearning which was akin to belly-hunger, and sent their souls questing southward across the divides to the sun-lands.

“For the love of God, Sigmund, shut up!” expostulated one of the men.  His hands were clenched painfully, but he hid them from sight in the folds of the bearskin upon which he lay.

“And what for, Dave Wertz?” Sigmund demanded.  “Why shall I not sing when the heart is glad?”

“Because you’ve got no call to, that’s why.  Look about you, man, and think of the grub we’ve been defiling our bodies with for the last twelvemonth, and the way we’ve lived and worked like beasts!”

Thus abjured, Sigmund, the golden-haired, surveyed it all, and the frost-rimmed wolf-dogs and the vapor breaths of the men.  “And why shall not the heart be glad?” he laughed.  “It is good; it is all good.  As for the grub—­” He doubled up his arm and caressed the swelling biceps.  “And if we have lived and worked like beasts, have we not been paid like kings?  Twenty dollars to the pan the streak is running, and we know it to be eight feet thick.  It is another Klondike—­and we know it—­Jim Hawes there, by your elbow, knows it and complains not.  And there’s Hitchcock!  He sews moccasins like an old woman, and waits against the time.  Only you can’t wait and work until the wash-up in the spring.  Then we shall all be rich, rich as kings, only you cannot wait.  You want to go back to the States.  So do I, and I was born there, but I can wait, when each day the gold in the pan shows up yellow as butter in the churning.  But you want your good time, and, like a child, you cry for it now.  Bah!  Why shall I not sing: 

   “In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe,
      I shall stay no more away. 
   Then if you still are true, my love,
      It will be our wedding day. 
   In a year, in a year, when my time is past,
      Then I’ll live in your love for aye. 
   Then if you still are true, my love,
      It will be our wedding day.”