Sitka is beautifully located at the foot of the mountains and commands a fine view seaward. The streets are not regularly laid out. Everyone appears to have chosen the site that pleased him best, regardless of his neighbors. Many of the buildings are old. At every turn one is made aware of Russian architecture. Several blocks from the wharf and directly in the middle of the street stands the Russian orthodox church of St. Michaels. The interior is richly decorated. Many rich paintings adorn the walls. A handsome brass chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Massive brass candlesticks stand on either side of the door. The interior is finished in white and gold, and the inner sanctuary where women may not enter is separated from the church proper by fine bronze doors.

The Sitka Mission and Industrial School was established by the Presbyterian board in 1878. There are now enrolled sixty-four boys and forty-six girls. School continues nine months of the year. The boys and girls occupy separate buildings. The forenoon the pupils spend in the school rooms and the afternoons the girls spend in the sewing room and the boys in the shops. The superintendent called a bright boy about twelve years of age and asked him if he could show me about the grounds and through the workshops while he conducted a larger party in a different direction. “Yes sir,” and with a touch of his cap to me, led the way to the carpenter shop. Two young men busy at work at a long bench touched their caps and a “Good afternoon, madam,” greeted me. “Yes madam, I am a carpenter,” proudly replied one of the young men to my question. He was about eighteen years old, while his companion was only sixteen. In this shop the pupils make tables, chairs and all sorts of furniture. I was next conducted to the tin shop, where besides pots and pans, stoves are made out of sheet iron and scraps of any old thing that is left over. All of the stoves in the school buildings are made in this way. My young Indian guide next conducted me to the shoe shop.

The schools are having vacation now, so the shops are not running a full number of pupils. The conductor and two pupils were at work, the former on fine shoes and the latter on heavy Klondike boots. Each boy has his own cobbler’s bench and a full set of tools. A third boy was sauntering about the room making himself familiar with his surroundings. The conductor of the shop told me that this lad had chosen the shoe maker’s trade and was to begin work on the following morning.

The boys all greeted me with a smile of welcome when I entered and bade me good-by when I departed. My guide said that the paint shop was closed, but he explained to me the object of the shop and the work done there. When I asked him if he had chosen his trade he politely explained that he had only been in the school a year and that he had not decided what he would like. The pupils enter for five years, the parents or guardian signing a contract to that effect. My guide conducted me to the gate, where I thanked him for his kindness. He gracefully touched his cap and said: “Good-by madam, I was glad to show you about.”

All of the dormitories, play rooms and school rooms are models of neatness. In the girls’ building the bread was just being taken out of the bake oven. Thirty loaves was the day’s baking. The boys make the bread and put it to rise. The girls mould it out and bake it. The Indians are very proud of the school and come of their own accord seeking admission for their children. This school is making these Indians self-supporting and consequently prosperous. One sees many bright faces among them and the younger people are happy and contented, with nothing in their dress or manner to distinguish them from young white Americans of the same age. In an old blockhouse located on a rocky prominence overlooking the sea some of the boys of the school spend the evening hours in band practice. They played until eleven o’clock on the parade ground without a light, reading their music by twilight. The selections were choice and well rendered. They played “Star Spangled Banner” as an opening piece. Sitka is rightfully proud of her Indian band. The Indian is given his chance in this land of the midnight sun and he is making the most of his opportunities.

Opposite the Mission on the bank of the Indian River is a large square rock called the Blarney-stone, which dowers the kisser with a magic tongue, but never a four leafed shamrock in all the merry dell with which to weave a magic spell.

The Sitkans, like all native races have a mythical legend as to their origin.

Two brothers, twins, lived in paradise. One of them ate a sea cucumber. It was the one forbidden fruit. The paradise became a wilderness. The brothers were starving when a band of roving Stickines came that way one day and pitying them left them wives to care for them.

From one of these pairs sprang all the Kaksatti, the Crow clan. From the other descended all the Kokwantons, the Wolf clan.

The legends of these Indians as well as all other tribes in this country, contain a full account of the landing of Columbus. The news was carried overland from post to post and tribe to tribe by runners. The history of the tribe at Sitka runs back five hundred years. Beyond that period they have no record and frankly say that they have no authentic account of their origin.

Their stature, their industry, their faith in the shaman, their belief in transmigration of souls, all point to Asiatic origin. Their word for water is agua, much like the Latin aqua.

The Mission and Training schools have transformed these savages, whose ancestors murdered the intrepid Muscovites, into frontier fishermen, boatmen and loggers.

An Indian never willingly consents to have his photograph taken, because, when you have a picture of him, he firmly believes that you have power over his soul. The educated Indian, however, is fearless of the camera.

The Kletwantans and the Klukwahuttes, two branches of the Frog clan, are at variance over the erection of a totem pole and have gone into court to settle the matter. The Klukwahuttes are the true aristocrats of Indian society in Sitka. The Kletwantons are the wealthy members of the real Indian four hundred, but having made their money in fish and oil, are considered upstarts by their more aristocratic brothers. The Kletwantons decided to build a new home for the chief and to set up an elaborately carved and decorated totem pole. The eyes of the frog which was to surmount this wonderful pole were to be twenty-dollar gold pieces. A grand potlatch was to be held when the pole was ready to set up. All of the Indians up and down the coast, from Juneau, Killisnoo, Skagway, Ft. Wrangel and Bella Bella, were invited, but the aristocratic Klukwahuttes were left out. Did they sit down and quietly ignore this insult? No indeed. They told their wealthy brothers in true American style what they thought of such conduct, and the matter would, no doubt, have been dropped here had not the wealthy fish oil makers denied that the Klukwahuttes belonged to the Frog clan at all. Upon this things grew so warm that the missionary appealed to the district attorney to aid him in making the Indians keep the peace. Then the disgusted Klukwahuttes went to him asking for an injunction to keep the pretended Frogs from holding the potlatch and setting up the pole. He replied to them that he would take the case upon them paying him a retainer of five hundred dollars, feeling sure that would end the matter, well knowing that they could not raise the money. Petitioned again he reduced his fee to two hundred and fifty dollars, feeling quite sure that they could not raise even that amount. But he reckoned without his host. In less than two hours the leading men of the Klukwahuttes filed into his office, carrying goat skin bags and pouches filled with money and counted out the two hundred and fifty dollars in small coins, no coin being larger than a fifty-cent piece. The attorney was obliged to keep his word and take the case. The injunction was issued restraining the oil makers from building the house and setting up the totem pole. The potlatch, however, was held.

When the Juneau Indians arrived in their canoes off the shore the chief stood up and chanted their traditions to prove that they belonged to the Frog clan and were rightfully invited. When he had finished the leaders of the Klukwahuttes, who were standing on the beach, recited their traditions to prove that they and not the Kletwantans were the true Frogs. The Klukwahuttes, however, made no disturbance during the feast. Later the Kletwantans employed a young Boston lawyer who was stopping at Sitka and sued the Klukwahuttes for damages. Not wishing to be outdone by the aristocratic Klukwahuttes, they at once paid their lawyer a retainer of two hundred and fifty dollars. There the case rests. The lawyers are trying to settle it out of court.

On an eminence which commands a fine view of the harbor and the town, stood the Baranhoff castle, which was burned a few years ago. It did not in the least resemble a castle. The picture makes it look like an old country inn. The ruins are still visible and the two flights of steps leading to it still exist. Around this historic ground cluster the scenes and incidents of the past century. The castle, like the island on which it stood, took its name from the Russian governor, Baranhoff, who in the early part of the century ruled the people with an iron hand, beginning with the knout and ending with the ax.

Not one of the intrepid Muscovites who landed here in 1741 were left to tell the tale of their capture and execution by the native Sitkans. In 1800 another party arrived and placed themselves under the protection of the Archangel Gabriel instead of trusting to the power of gunpowder and stockades. They too were massacred and their homes destroyed by fire. Baranhoff was at once sent out by the Russian government. He erected the castle and stockade, withdrew the town from the protection of Gabriel and placed it under the protection of the Archangel Michael.

This old castle was once the home of nobility and the scene of grand festivities. Here princes and princesses of the blood royal ate their caviare, quaffed their vodka and measured a minuet. It was in this old castle that Lady Franklin spent three weeks twenty-five years ago when in search of her husband, Sir John. It was here that W. H. Seward spent several days when on a trip to Alaska after its purchase from Russia, through the sagacity of himself and Charles Sumner. At one of the windows sat the beautiful Princess Maksoutoff weeping bitter tears as the Russian flag was lowered for the last time. On the 18th of October, 1867, three United States warships lay at anchor in the bay. They were the Ossipee, Resaca and Jamestown, commanded by Captains Emmons, Bradford and McDougal. Each vessel was dressed in the national colors, while the Russian soldiers, citizens and Indians assembled upon the open space at the foot of the castle carrying aloft the eagle of the czar of all the Russias. At a given signal the American navy fired a salute in honor of the Russian flag, which was lowered from the staff on the castle. After a national salute from the Russian garrison in honor of our flag, the stars and stripes were hoisted to the top of the old flag staff.

The Russian parade ground has been converted into a base ball ground, where Indian and white teams contest for honors.

The native races of Alaska are slowly dying out. The bright light of civilization is always the death doom of savagism.

The most beautiful natural park in the world lies just above Sitka, on the banks of the Indian River, which rises in the valley between the mountains and winding down, empties into the sea.

Here are the greenest of pines, cedars and firs. The grasses and mosses are the brilliant green of the tropics. A neat suspension foot bridge swings clear of the water from buttress to buttress. The shallow, murmuring, sparkling water bathes the brown roots of shrubs and trees. Great cedars lie prostrate, covered with short green moss. Giant firs are draped with a delicate sea green moss, which hangs in festoons and pendants from branch, limb and trunk. The pine tops sigh softly the music of the seas.

Sunny banks are yellow with the familiar cinquefoil, the blossoms of which are five or six times as large as they are at home. In open glades the ground is white with cornells, and tiny dogwood shrubs growing from two to five inches high. The wild purple geranium brightens sunny glades, while the mountain spiraea, the most beautiful of all spiraeas, bends and sways in the breeze.

Thickets of salmon berry and wonderful mazes of strange ferns meet one at every turn. One of the handsomest bushes in the park is the magnificent Devil’s Club. There are great thickets of them twenty feet high casting an enticing but dangerous shade. The dainty green leaves, as large as dinner plates, rear their heads aloft, umbrella-like. The stems, limbs, and trunk are covered with thousands of tiny poisonous prickles, which work deep into the flesh, making ugly sores.

Down on the beach are the graves of Lisiansky’s men, who were killed by ambuscaded Indians while taking water for their ship, in 1804.

Friday evening we weighed anchor and steamed out of the harbor. The beautiful bay, with its beautiful islands, slowly receded from view and we bade farewell to the historic old town of Sitka.

Hamerton, in his charming work on Landscape, says: “There are, I believe, four new experiences for which no description ever adequately prepares us, the first sight of the sea, the first journey in the desert, the sight of flowing molten lava, and a walk on a great glacier. We feel in each case that the strange thing is pure nature, as much nature as a familiar English moor, yet so extraordinary that we might be in another planet.”

I would add a fifth, sunset at sea. Earth holds nothing more fair, nothing more beautiful than sunshine.

A little while ago the sky was blue, flaked with fleecy white clouds, the snows on the coast range lay sparkling like diamonds in the sun, the forest lay dark and green on the mountainside, the sea gray and blue by turns; but now a change comes over nature’s moods, the clouds glow, the snows take on brilliant hues, the dark old forest grows darker, the sea shimmers and sparkles, a flaming molten mass.

The imperial sunset throws its red flame afar, ’till the land, the sea, the mountains, the sky, the very air it incarnadines in one grand flame of scarlet. Long, long will the beholder remember that glorious sunset at Sitka.