When the high tide came, we floated off the bar, but the scene was one of dull monotony, and it was not until the day following that we came into the hill country, and I was permitted to again see the dear trees I loved so well, not one of which I had seen since leaving California. At Anvik there came on board a little missionary teacher bound for Philadelphia, who had spent seven years with the natives in this Episcopal Mission without a vacation, and her stories were interesting in the extreme. Our days were uneventful. A broken stern wheel, enforced rests upon sand bars, frequent stops at wood yards with a few moments run upon shore in which to gather autumn leaves, and get a sniff of the woods, this was our life upon the Yukon steamer for many days. After a while the nights grew too dark for safe progress, and the boat was tied up until daylight. Russian Mission, Tanana, Rampart, Fort Yukon and the Flats were passed, and the days wore tediously on. We were literally worming our way up stream, with low water and dark nights to contend with, but a second summer was upon us with warm, bright sunshine, and the hills were brilliantly colored. One morning we approached the towering Roquett Rock, so named by Lieutenant Frederick Schwatka in his explorations down the Yukon years before, and connected with which is an Indian legend of some interest. This immense rock (so the story runs) once formed a part of the western shore of the Yukon, and was one of a pair of towering cliffs of about the same size, and with similar characteristics. Here the two huge cliffs lived for many geological periods in wedded bliss as man and wife, until finally family dissensions invaded the rocky household, and ended by the stony-hearted husband kicking his wrangling wife into the distant plain, and changing the course of the great river so that it flowed between them, to emphasize the perpetual divorce. The cliff and the rock are still known as "the old man" and "the old woman," the latter standing in isolation upon a low, flat island with the muddy Yukon flowing on both sides. At this time of the year the days in Alaska grow perceptibly shorter, and we were not surprised to find dusky twilight at five in the afternoon, and to notice the eerie loneliness of the dark, sweet scented woods a few hours later, when the steamer lay tied to the river's bank. One night after dinner a number of passengers sat idly about in the saloon of our steamer. Many had grown tired of cards, or had lost their money, and, finding themselves pitted against more lucky players, had called a halt and looked for other occupation. Miners lounged about, chatting of the gold mines, their summer's work and experiences. Big Curly and his little black-eyed wife listened attentively for a time. The old miner was a born story teller, and knew a good yarn when he heard it. The boat was tied up for the night, and all was quiet around us. It was the time and place for a story.