HE winter is rapidly passing, and so far without monotony, though what it will bring to us before spring remains to be seen. Little Jennie has been suffering more and more with her leg of late, and her papa sent for the doctor at White Mountain, who came today by dog-team. The child's mother has had a spring cot made for her, and she was put to bed by the doctor, who says the knee trouble is a very serious one, and she must have good nursing, attention being also paid to her diet. The Eskimos are all exceedingly fond of seal and reindeer meat, and Jennie's Auntie Apuk or grandmother will often bring choice tidbits to the child at bedtime, or between meals, when she ought not to eat anything, much less such hearty food. When the little child sees the good things, she, of course, wants them, and having been humored in every whim, she must still be, she thinks, especially when she is ill. A problem then is here presented which I may help to solve for them. Jennie and I are growing very fond of each other, and she will do some things for me which she will not do for others who have obeyed her wishes so long. I begin by round-about coaxing and reasoning, and get some other idea into her mind, until the plate of seal meat is partially forgotten, and does not seem so attractive at nine in the evening as when presented with loving smiles by her old grandmother, who does sometimes resent the alternative, but is still exceedingly solicitous that the little girl should recover. As grandmother understands English imperfectly, Mollie is obliged to reiterate the doctor's orders in Eskimo, making them as imperative as possible, and the poor old Eskimo woman goes home with the promise that Jennie shall have some of the dainties at meal-time on the morrow.

In appearance grandmother is still somewhat rugged, being a large woman, with an intelligent face, which expresses very forcibly her inner feelings, and being, probably, somewhere between sixty and seventy years of age. Her husband, who has been dead only a year or two, was much beloved by her, and no reference to him is ever made in her presence, without a flow of tears from her eyes. Her love of home and kindred seems very strong, and her devotion to little Jennie amounts almost to idolatry, so the solicitude expressed by the good woman is only a part of what she really feels, but which is shown in hundreds of ways. When the doctor settled the little girl in her bed she adjusted a heavy weight to the foot on the limb which has given her so much trouble, and now the grief of Mollie and her mother is unbounded. Poor old grandmother wipes her eyes continually, leaving the house quickly at times to rush home and mourn alone, as she is so constrained to do, her sorrow for her darling's sufferings being very sincere. Later she comes in after doing her best at courage building, tiptoes her way in to see if her pet is sleeping or awake, and bringing something if possible, with which to amuse or interest the invalid. However great is the grief of the women, that of the child's papa is equally sad to see, and he, poor man, is forced to face the probability of a long and dreary winter, if not a lifetime of suffering for his darling child. One cannot help seeing his misery, though he tries like a Trojan to hide it, and keeps as cheerful as possible to encourage others. He is always an invalid himself.

The main topic of interest to Jennie now is the little stranger who has come to live with her Auntie Apuk, and whom she is so desirous of seeing that she almost forgets her trouble and suffering, asking constantly about its size, color, eyes, hair, hands and feet. She counts the days before she can see it, and puzzles greatly over the fact of its not possessing a name, her big black eyes getting larger and blacker as she wonders where one will be found. Little Charlie is allowed in to see Jennie at times, and wonders greatly to find her always in bed, asking many questions in his childish Eskimo treble, and patting her hand sympathetically while standing at her side.

"Mamma," said he the other day to Mollie in Eskimo, with a pleased smile on his face, and when the two were alone, "the ladie loves me."

"How do you know?" asked Mollie.

"Because," he said shyly, putting his little arms about her neck, "because she kissed me." Whereupon Mollie did the same, and assured him of her own love, always providing, of course, that he was a good boy, and did what papa and mamma told him to do.

This conversation Mollie reported to me a few days after it took place, and I assured her with tears welling up in my eyes that the little child had made no mistake. Strange action of the subjective mind of one person over another, even to the understanding by this Eskimo baby of a stranger heart, and that one so unresponsive as mine. The child, deprived as he was of an own mother's love, still hungered and thirsted for it, and he was quick to discern in my eyes and voice the secret for which he was looking. How I should enjoy giving my whole time to these two children, and they really do need me to teach and care for them; but I am dividing myself between them and the Mission, and the winter days are very short.

The thermometer today registered fourteen degrees below zero, against twenty-eight yesterday and thirty below the day before that.

Mr. H. has returned from Nome, bringing me a package of kodak films sent from Oakland, Cal., last August, and which I never expected to receive after so long a time. I was delighted to get them, and now I can kodak this whole district, above and below.

Mollie is trying to study English a little, but with many interruptions on every hand. The big living room is light and warm, our only study place, and yet the rendezvous of all who care to drop in, regardless of invitations, making it somewhat difficult for us to concentrate our attention on the lessons. The Marshal, the bartender, the clerks, cooks, miners, natives, strangers and all come into this room to chat, see and inquire for Jennie, play with Charlie, and get warm by the fire. Here is an opportunity of a lifetime to study human nature, and I am glad, for it is a subject always full of interest to me, though I frequently feel literally choked with tobacco smoke, and wish often for a private sitting-room.

Sunday, January twentieth: We are snuggled indoors by the fires under the most terrible blizzard of the season so far, with furious gales, falling and drifting snow, and intense cold. It is impossible to keep the house as warm as usual, and I have eaten my meals today dressed in my fur coat, my seat at table being at the end with my back close to the frosty north window. Though this is the place of honor at the board, and the missionary's seat when he eats in the Mission, still it is a chilly berth on occasions, and this is decidedly one.

The dining-room contains, besides the north window, one on the south side as well, and though both are covered with storm windows, the frost and ice is several inches thick upon the panes, precluding any possibility of receiving light from either quarter unless the sun shines very brightly indeed, and then only a subdued light is admitted. During the night the house shook constantly in the terrific gale, rattling loose boards and shingles, and I was kept awake for several hours.

At night I am in the habit of tossing my fur coat upon my bed for the warmth there is in it, as I am not the possessor of a fur robe, as all persons should be who winter here. Furs are the only things to keep the intense cold out in such weather as we are now having, but with some management I get along fairly well.

A reindeer skin not in use from the attic makes my bed soft and warm underneath, my coat over my blankets answers the same purpose, and the white fox baby robe from the old wooden cradle upstairs makes a soft, warm rug on the floor upon which to step out in the morning. Wool slippers are never off my feet when my muckluks are resting, and I manage by keeping a supply of kindlings and small wood in my box by the stove, to have a warm fire by which to dress.

These days we do not often rise early, and ten o'clock frequently finds us at breakfast, but we retire correspondingly late, and midnight is quite a customary hour lately. Today we passed the time in eating, sleeping, singing, and reading. A visiting Swedish preacher came over a few days ago from the Home, and is storm-bound in the Mission. He is a large, heavy man, with a hearty voice and hand grip, and is a graduate of Yale College, using the best of English, having filled one of the vacant Nome pulpits for several weeks last fall before coming to Golovin.

Today he has read one of Talmage's sermons to us, and we have sung Gospel songs galore, in both Swedish and English, with myself as organist. When this is tired of, the smaller instruments are taken out, and Ricka has the greatest difficulty in preventing Alma from amusing the assembled company with her mandolin solo, "Johnny Get Your Hair Cut," the young lady's red lips growing quite prominent while she insists upon playing it.

"Good music is always acceptable, Ricka, and on Sunday as well as on any other day, so I cannot see why you will not let me play as I want to. I do not think it a sin to play on the mandolin on Sunday. Do you, Pastor F.?" asked Alma of the preacher, appealingly, and in all innocence.

What could he say to her? He laughed.

"O, no," said Ricka, "I do not say that mandolin music is sinful on Sunday, and if you would play 'Nearer My God to Thee,' or some such piece, and not play 'Johnny,' I should not object." And she now looked at the preacher and me for reinforcements.

Alma is not, however, easily put down, and the contest usually winds up with Ricka going into the kitchen where she cannot hear the silly strains of "Johnny," which Alma is picking abstractedly from the strings of the instrument, while the preacher continues his reading, and I go off to my room.

Mr. Q., a Swedish missionary, and his native preacher called Rock, have arrived from Unalaklik, with the two visiting preachers at the Home, and they held an evening service in the schoolhouse, which was fairly well attended. There were seven white men, the three women in this house and myself, besides many natives of both sexes. Grandmother was there with Alice, Ageetuk and others, and the missionary spoke well and feelingly in English, interpreted by Rock into Eskimo. One of the preachers sang a solo, and presided at the organ. Some of the native women present had with them their babies, and these, away from home in the evening, contrary to their usual habit, cried and nestled around a good deal, and had to be comforted in various ways, both substantial and otherwise, during the evening; but the speakers were accustomed to all that, and were thankful to have as listeners the poor mothers, who probably could not have come without the youngsters.

Considerable will power and auto-suggestion is needed to enable me to endure the fumes of seal oil along with other smells which are constantly arising from the furs and bodies of the Eskimos, made damp, perhaps, by the snow which has lodged upon them before entering the room. Fire we must have. Those who are continually with the natives in these gatherings do get "acclimated," but I am having a hard struggle along these lines.

The three Swedish and one Eskimo preacher left today for the Home, after I had taken a kodak view of them, and their dog-team. As the wind blew cold and stiffly from the northwest, they hoisted a sail made of an old blanket upon their sled.

There are many who are ingenious, and who are glad to help the sick child, Jennie, pass her time pleasantly, and among them is the musician. Being a clever artist as well as musician, he goes often to sit beside Jennie, and then slate and pencils are brought out, and the drawing begins. Indian heads, Eskimo children in fur parkies, summer landscapes, anything and everything takes its turn upon the slate, which appears a real kaleidoscope under the artist's hands. Jennie often laughs till the tears run down her face at some comical drawing or story, or the musician's efforts to speak Eskimo as she does, and both enjoy themselves immensely.

Yesterday Mollie went out to hunt for ptarmigan. She is exceedingly fond of gunning, has great success, and she and the child relish these tasty birds better than anything else at this season. Ageetuk also is a good hunter and trapper, and brought in two red foxes from her traps yesterday, when she came home from her outing with Mollie. Little Charlie ran up to Mollie on her return from her hunt, and cried in a mixture of Eskimo and English:

"Foxes peeluk, Mamma?" meaning to ask if she did not secure any animals, appearing disappointed when told by his mamma (for such she calls herself to the child) that she did not find anything today but ptarmigan.

It was twenty degrees below zero this morning, and the sun was beautifully bright. The days are growing longer, and it is quite light at eight o'clock in the morning. The short days have never been tiresome to me because we have not lacked for fuel and lights, and have kept occupied.

One of the Commissioners and two or three other men have been trying for a long time to get their meals here, but the girls have pleaded too little room, and other excuses, until now the Commissioner has returned, and renewed his requests. Today he came over and left word that he and two others would be here to six o'clock supper, at which the girls were wrathy.

"I guess he will wait a long time before I cook his meals for him," sputtered Alma, who disliked the coming of the official to the house, and under no consideration would she consent to board him.

"My time is too short to cook for a man like that," declared Mary, with a toss of her head, as she settled herself in the big arm chair in the sitting room, and poor Ricka, whose turn it was this week to prepare the meals, found herself in the embarrassing position of compulsory cook for at least two of the men she most heartily despised in the camp, and this too under the displeasure of both Alma and Mary.

"What shall I do?" groaned Ricka, appealing to me in her extremity. "Will you sit at table with them tonight, Mrs. Sullivan? because Alma and Mary will not, and I must pour the coffee. O, dear, what shall I have for supper?" and the poor girl looked fairly bowed down with anxiety.

"O, never mind them, Ricka," said I, "just give them what you had intended to give the rest of us. I suppose they think this is a roadhouse, and, if so, they can as well board here as others; but if Alma refuses to take them, I do not see what they can do but keep away," argued I, knowing both Alma and Mary too well by this time to expect them to change their verdict, as, indeed, I had no desire for them to do.

"I'm sure it is not a roadhouse for men of their class," growled Alma, biting her thread off with a snap, for she was sewing on Mollie's dress, and did not wish to be hindered. "I'll not eat my supper tonight till they have eaten; will you, Mary?"

"Indeed, I will not," was the reply from a pair of very set lips, at which Ricka and I retired to the kitchen to consult together, and prepare the much-talked-of meal.

Then I proceeded to spread the table with a white cloth and napkins, arrange the best chairs, and make the kitchen as presentable as I could with lamps, while Ricka went to work at the range. We had a passable supper, but not nearly so good as we usually have, for the official had not only taken us by surprise, but had come unbidden, and was not, (by the express orders of the business head of the restaurant firm), to be made welcome.

At any rate, Ricka and I did the best we could under the circumstances, the meal passed in some way, and the official then renewed his request to be allowed to take all his meals in the Mission, meeting with nothing but an unqualified refusal, much to his evident disappointment.

I doubt very much now the probability of my getting any more copying to do for him, as he says I could have persuaded Alma to board him if I had been so inclined; but then I never was so inclined, and have about decided that I do not want his work at any price.

January twenty-fifth: This has been a very cold, windy day, but three of the men came in from prospecting on the creeks, and have little to report. To think of living in tents, or even native igloos, in such weather for any length of time whatever, is enough to freeze one's marrow, and I think the men deserve to "strike it rich" to repay them for so much discomfort and suffering. Mr. L. and B. walked to the Home and back today—twenty-four miles in the cold. I bought two more fox skins of the storekeeper with which to make my coat longer.

Mr. H. and Miss J. came to hold a meeting in the kitchen for the natives, and Mollie interpreted for them, as Ivan was not present. They all enjoy singing very much, and are trying to learn some new songs. Contrary to my expectations, they learn the tunes before they do the words, which are English, of course.

Later the musician came over and sang and played for an hour and a half at the organ, which all in the house enjoyed; but he is worried about his friend, who was bitten by the mad-dog, and is in poor health, he told us tonight. They have lately moved into the old schoolhouse, and like there better than their former lodgings, which were very cold. There are three of them in the schoolhouse, or rather cabin, for it is an old log building, with dirt roof, upon which the grass and weeds grow tall in summer, and under the eaves of the new schoolhouse, a frame structure with a small pointed tower.

Sunday, January twenty-seventh: The missionaries held a meeting in the sitting room this forenoon at which the Commissioner was present, not because he was interested in the service, Alma says. I suppose he had nothing else to do, and happened to get up earlier than usual. I presided at the organ, and Miss J. led the singing. The day was a very bright one, but the thermometer registered thirty degrees below zero.

The missionaries have taken Alma with them to visit for a few days, and do some sewing at the Home. We all ran out upon the ice with them, but did not go far, as it was very cold. For a low mercury these people do not stay indoors, but go about as they like dressed from top to toe in furs, and do not suffer; but let the wind blow a stiff gale, and it is not the same proposition.

Four men came from the camp of the shipwrecked people, the father of Freda, the little girl, being one. They say the child and her mother are well, and as comfortable as they can be made for the present, but in the spring they will go back to Nome.