The
very wood itself was weather-stained, and a chip out of it left no trace
of life or freshness beneath. Centuries old they seemed, these small
panels, sacred _Ikons_. In far-away Russia they may have been venerated
before this continent had verified the dream of Columbus. As we were
breaking nearly all the laws of propriety, I thought it safe to inquire
the price of these. I did so. Would I had been the sole one within
hearing that I might have glutted my gorge on the spot! They were
fifteen cents apiece, and they were divided among us as ruthlessly as if
they were the seamless shirt of blessed memory.

Meanwhile the ceremonies at the high altar had come to an end. The
amiable assistant of Father Mitropolski was displaying the treasures of
the sanctuary with pardonable pride,--jewelled crosiers, golden
chalices, robes resplendent with rubies, amethysts and pearls, paintings
upon ivory, and images clothed in silver and precious stones. The little
chapel, cruciform, is decorated in white and gold; the altar screens are
of bronze set with images of silver. Soft carpets of the Orient were
spread upon the steps of the altar.

How pretty it all seemed as we turned to leave the place and saw
everything dimly in the blue vapor that still sweetened and hallowed it!
And when the six bells in the belfry all fell to ringing riotously, and
the sun let slip a few stray beams that painted the spire a richer
green, and the grassy street that stretches from the church porch to the
shore was dotted with groups of strollers, St Michael's at Sitka, in
spite of its dingy and unsymmetrical exterior, seemed to us one of the
prettiest spots it had ever been our lot to see.

It is a grassy and a mossy town that gathers about the Russian chapel.
All the old houses were built to last (as they are likely to do) for
many generations to come. They are log-houses--the public buildings, the
once fashionable officers' club, and many of the residences,--formed of
solid square brown logs laid one upon another until you come to the
roof. At times the logs are clapboarded without, and are all lathed and
plastered within. The floors are solid and the stairs also. The wonder
is how the town can ever go to ruin--save by fire; for wood doesn't rot
in Alaska, but will lie in logs exposed to the changes of the season for
an indefinite period.

I saw in a wood back of the town an immense log. It was in the primeval
forest, and below it were layers of other