that is all. It be headcraft, not witchcraft.”
“And may any man?”
“Any man.”
There was a long silence. The men looked in one another’s faces,
and Keesh went on eating.
“And . . . and . . . and wilt thou tell us, O Keesh?” Klosh-Kwan
finally asked in a tremulous voice.
“Yea, I will tell thee.” Keesh finished sucking a marrow-bone and
rose to his feet. “It is quite simple. Behold!”
He picked up a thin strip of whalebone and showed it to them. The
ends were sharp as needle-points. The strip he coiled carefully,
till it disappeared in his hand. Then, suddenly releasing it, it
sprang straight again. He picked up a piece of blubber.
“So,” he said, “one takes a small chunk of blubber, thus, and thus
makes it hollow. Then into the hollow goes the whalebone, so,
tightly coiled, and another piece of blubber is fitted over the
whale-bone. After that it is put outside where it freezes into a
little round ball. The bear swallows the little round ball, the
blubber melts, the whalebone with its sharp ends stands out
straight, the bear gets sick, and when the bear is very sick, why,
you kill him with a spear. It is quite simple.”
And Ugh-Gluk said “Oh!” and Klosh-Kwan said “Ah!” And each said
something after his own manner, and all understood.
And this is the story of Keesh, who lived long ago on the rim of
the polar sea. Because he exercised headcraft and not witchcraft,
he rose from the meanest IGLOO to be head man of his village, and
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
46
through all the years that he lived, it is related, his tribe was
prosperous, and neither widow nor weak one cried aloud in the night
because there was no meat.
THE UNEXPECTED
IT is a simple matter to see the obvious, to do the expected. The
tendency of the individual life is to be static rather than
dynamic, and this tendency is made into a propulsion by
civilization, where the obvious only is seen, and the unexpected
rarely happens. When the unexpected does happen, however, and when
it is of sufficiently grave import, the unfit perish. They do not
see what is not obvious, are unable to do the unexpected, are
incapable of adjusting their well-grooved lives to other and
strange grooves. In short, when they come to the end of their own
groove, they die.
On the other hand, there are those that make toward survival, the
fit individuals who escape from the rule of the obvious and the
expected and adjust their lives to no matter what strange grooves
they may stray into, or into which they may be forced. Such an
individual was Edith Whittlesey. She was born in a rural district
of England, where life proceeds by rule of thumb and the unexpected
is so very unexpected that when it happens it is looked upon as an
immorality. She went into service early, and while yet a young
woman, by rule-of-thumb progression, she became a lady’s maid.
The effect of civilization is to impose human law upon environment
until it becomes machine-like in its regularity. The objectionable
is eliminated, the inevitable is foreseen. One is not even made
wet by the rain nor cold by the frost; while death, instead of
stalking about grewsome and accidental, becomes a prearranged
pageant, moving along a well-oiled groove to the family vault,
where the hinges are kept from rusting and the dust from the air is
swept continually away.
Such was the environment of Edith Whittlesey. Nothing happened.
It could scarcely be called a happening, when, at the age of
twenty-five, she accompanied her mistress on a bit of travel to the
United States. The groove merely changed its direction. It was
still the same groove and well oiled. It was a groove that bridged
the Atlantic with uneventfulness, so that the ship was not a ship
in the midst of the sea, but a capacious, many-corridored hotel
that moved swiftly and placidly, crushing the waves into submission
with its colossal bulk until the sea was a mill-pond, monotonous
with quietude. And at the other side the groove continued on over
the land – a well-disposed, respectable groove that supplied hotels
at every stopping-place, and hotels on wheels between the stopping-
places.
In Chicago, while her mistress saw one side of social life, Edith
Whittlesey saw another side; and when she left her lady’s service
and became Edith Nelson, she betrayed, perhaps faintly, her ability
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
47
to grapple with the unexpected and to master it. Hans Nelson,
immigrant, Swede by birth and carpenter by occupation, had in him
that Teutonic unrest that drives the race ever westward on its
great adventure. He was a large-muscled, stolid sort of a man, in
whom little imagination was coupled with immense initiative, and
who possessed, withal, loyalty and affection as sturdy as his own
strength.
“When I have worked hard and saved me some money, I will go to
Colorado,” he had told Edith on the day after their wedding. A
year later they were in Colorado, where Hans Nelson saw his first
mining and caught the mining-fever himself. His prospecting led
him through the Dakotas, Idaho, and eastern Oregon, and on into the
mountains of British Columbia. In camp and on trail, Edith Nelson
was always with him, sharing his luck, his hardship, and his toil.
The short step of the house-reared woman she exchanged for the long
stride of the mountaineer. She learned to look upon danger clear-
eyed and with understanding, losing forever that panic fear which
is bred of ignorance and which afflicts the city-reared, making
them as silly as silly horses, so that they await fate in frozen
horror instead of grappling with it, or stampede in blind self-
destroying terror which clutters the way with their crushed
carcasses.
Edith Nelson met the unexpected at every turn of the trail, and she
trained her vision so that she saw in the landscape, not the
obvious, but the concealed. She, who had never cooked in her life,
learned to make bread without the mediation of hops, yeast, or
baking-powder, and to bake bread, top and bottom, in a frying-pan
before an open fire. And when the last cup of flour was gone and
the last rind of bacon, she was able to rise to the occasion, and
of moccasins and the softer-tanned bits of leather in the outfit to
make a grub-stake substitute that somehow held a man’s soul in his
body and enabled him to stagger on. She learned to pack a horse as
well as a man, – a task to break the heart and the pride of any
city-dweller, and she knew how to throw the hitch best suited for
any particular kind of pack. Also, she could build a fire of wet
wood in a downpour of rain and not lose her temper. In short, in
all its guises she mastered the unexpected. But the Great
Unexpected was yet to come into her life and put its test upon her.
The gold-seeking tide was flooding northward into Alaska, and it
was inevitable that Hans Nelson and his wife should he caught up by
the stream and swept toward the Klondike. The fall of 1897 found
them at Dyea, but without the money to carry an outfit across
Chilcoot Pass and float it down to Dawson. So Hans Nelson worked
at his trade that winter and helped rear the mushroom outfitting-
town of Skaguay.
He was on the edge of things, and throughout the winter he heard
all Alaska calling to him. Latuya Bay called loudest, so that the
summer of 1898 found him and his wife threading the mazes of the
broken coast-line in seventy-foot Siwash canoes. With them were
Indians, also three other men. The Indians landed them and their
supplies in a lonely bight of land a hundred miles or so beyond
Latuya Bay, and returned to Skaguay; but the three other men
remained, for they were members of the organized party. Each had
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
48
put an equal share of capital into the outfitting, and the profits
were to he divided equally. In that Edith Nelson undertook to cook
for the outfit, a man’s share was to be her portion.
First, spruce trees were cut down and a three-room cabin
constructed. To keep this cabin was Edith Nelson’s task. The task
of the men was to search for gold, which they did; and to find
gold, which they likewise did. It was not a startling find, merely
a low-pay placer where long hours of severe toil earned each man
between fifteen and twenty dollars a day. The brief Alaskan summer
protracted itself beyond its usual length, and they took advantage
of the opportunity, delaying their return to Skaguay to the last
moment. And then it was too late. Arrangements had been made to