isked his all to
reach.

Intending prospectors should know that nearly every available mile of
country from Norton Sound to the Arctic Ocean has now been staked out,
and before claims are now obtained they must be paid for. American
missionaries have not been behind-hand in the race for wealth, and in
connection with this subject, the following lines by a disappointed
Klondiker are not without humour:

"Then we climbed the cold creeks near a mission
That is run by the agents of God,
Who trade Bibles and Prayer-books to heathen
For ivory, sealskins and cod.
At last we were sure we had struck it,
But alas! for our hope of reward,
The landscape from sea-beach to sky-line
Was staked in the name of the Lord!"[69]

[Footnote 69: "The Goldsmith of Nome," by Sam Dunham. (Neale Publishing
Company, Washington, D.C.)]

That these lines, however, do not apply to _all_ Alaskan missionaries I
can testify from a personal knowledge of our good friend Mr. Lopp's
comfortless, primitive life, and unselfish devotion to the cause of
Christianity.

CHAPTER XVI

A RIVER OF GOLD

The heading of this chapter is not suggested by a flight of fancy, but
by solid fact, for there is not a mile along either bank of the Yukon
River, over 2000 miles long from the great lakes to Bering Sea, where
you cannot dip in a pan and get a colour. Gold may not be found in
paying quantities so near the main stream, but it is there.

From Nome to Dawson City is about 1600 miles, the terminus of the Yukon
River steamers being St. Michael, on Bering Sea. When I was at this
place in 1896, it consisted of two or three small buildings of the
"Alaska Commercial Company," a Russian church and ruined stockade, and
about a dozen Eskimo wigwams. During my stay there, on that occasion,
one small cargo-boat arrived from the South, and a solitary whaler put
in for water, their appearance causing wild excitement amongst the few
white settlers.

Although the civilisation of Nome City had somewhat prepared me for
surprises, I scarcely expected to find St. Michael converted from a
squalid settlement into a modern city almost as fine as Nome itself. For
here also were a large hotel, good shops, electric light, and a
roadstead alive with shipping of every description from the Eskimo
_kayak_ to the towering liner from 'Frisco. We arrived at 6 A.M. after a
twelve hours' journey from Nome, but even at that early hour the cla