We liked the Indian women better than the men; they could talk better English, and they are nicer looking. Some of them have very beautiful faces, and the little babies are too cunning for anything. Here at Sitka the Indians do not have totem poles in front of their the horrible lip plugs, like some we saw.

houses, and the women do not wear But they have very strange ways, even if they do not do some of the things we saw at other places. The old woman who worked the grass into my buttonhole could speak very good English, and she said that her people, the Thlingets -pronounced Klinkit - took some animal or bird for their family totem; that if several families belonging to different tribes selected the bear for their totem, they could not marry each other, for all members of the bear family were considered brothers and sisters, but that a bear and a whale could marry, even if they were quite close blood relations. I asked many people about that, and they all said that it was true. If a man who belongs to the bear family marries a woman who belongs to the whale family, he becomes a whale, and if any trouble comes up he must fight his own people in defense of his wife's family. The men give the women all the money, and if a man sells anything without consulting his wife, and she is not willing to have the article sold, he is compelled to take back the money and

get the article, and sometimes this makes tourists very angry; but the Indians do not care about that.

When an Indian dies, his wife and children and all his property fall to his younger brother or else his sister's son. Sometimes the woman is very old and ugly, and the heir does not want to have her and her children, so he gets his friends to agree upon a sum with her friends, and he pays it sooner than marry her. One day while Alva and I were snap-shooting along the Indian River, we met a hideous old squaw with her face painted black; when we got back to town we asked about her, and were told that she was in mourning for her husband. Some of them mix the ashes of their husbands, whose bodies are cremated after death, with pitch, and then paint a broad band all round their faces close up to the roots of their hair with this mixture. But the one we saw was just painted with a mixture of lampblack. She looked horrible, and we found out afterward that her husband's nephew would not marry her, and I did not blame him. I thought it would be pretty hard lines for a young man to have to live with her. Sometimes they have a fight between the families on account of the heir not wanting to take his inheritance, and I am sure the squaws are ugly enough to be a just cause of war.

On rainy days we would go to the public museum where there is a fine line of Indian curios from all parts of Alaska. We were interested in the Presbyterian mission, too. Dr. Sheldon Jackson founded the mission school, and nearly all of the curios in the museum are of his collection. We did not see him, for he was away in the interior when we were in Sitka, but everybody says that he is a wonderful worker among the Indians. The boys and girls at the school are able to read and write, and they speak excellent English. They sing part songs very finely, and they have a brass band composed entirely of native boys; one of the assistants at the school is their leader, and they play Home, Sweet Home," "The Sweet By and By," "The Sweet By and By," "Annie Laurie," and such selections, with a great deal of skill.

Out near the school buildings is the house of the Russian priest, who

conducts the services in the quaint old Greek church. This priest has a large yard full of the loveliest flowers. Whenever I got awfully homesick I went to this yard; somehow the flowers comforted me.

One morning we went to service in the church. Outside, the church is a very commonplace-looking building, and if it were not for its funny bulging dome and belfry spire and its green roof, it would not attract much attention; but inside, it is like going into another world. There are rare gold and silver altar ornaments and fine paintings; there is also a representation of the "Last Supper," all made out of gold and silver and ivory and gems. And the robes of the priest are rich, and have such heavy fringe and embroidery on them that they look too heavy for the slight figure of the Russian priest who holds the service in this church. The best thing to me about the church is its chime of six bells; the tones are the most musical I ever heard in bells. The whole chime. was brought from Moscow, and is a very, very old one, although so sweet.

Between the Greek church and the wharf lies all the business portion of the town; the trade is chiefly in furs and curios. The stores are tolerably good, but not as modern looking as the Juneau stores.

But Sitka is the "hub"; all

the society of Alaska lives there, and the soldiers and the Government officers live there with their families, and the war vessels and other Government vessels put into Sitka Bay for the winter. I fancy they have great fun, dancing and going to parties and spending the long winter nights.

Although the days are very short, it never gets very cold at Sitka, hardly ever down to zero; and in the summer it is not oppres

of berries-blackberries, red and black raspberries, salmon berries, huckleberries-all of the largest size, larger than any cultivated ones, and of an excellent flavor and very juicy.

With all the fish in the sea, the deer and small game on the islands, the fruit in the woods, one might be as happy as Robinson Crusoe if he happened to be cast away in this region; at least he could not possibly starve. The days flew by very swiftly, although they were very long days; that is, we could read out

Toward one

of doors at eleven o'clock at night almost as well as at noon. o'clock in the morning it would grow very dusky, and a little after two it would be to-morrow; day would begin to break; but after all it was a long time coming. The sky was nearly always clear and deeply blue, and the sun shone brightly during most of our visit; yet it does often rain for days together, and tourists are then much disappointed in Sitka.

Almost every day, at some time, Alva and I went out in search of snap-shots. There were so many interesting subjects that we found it difficult to make a choice, especially if our film or our plates happened to be nearly exhausted. The old block houses we found very picturesque. When the Russians owned Sitka, they had a stockade between the Indian and Russian town, and these old block houses were built in the angles of the stockade. Only a very little of the stockade remains, but there are two of these quaint block houses, and kodak fiends ought to be very glad of them. The Government buildings are also the same which the Russians used. They are built of logs, but are very substantial and comfortable.

Near the old Greek church there is an immense rock, called the "kissing stone," from which one gets a fine view of the many interesting objects on every side. They have a legend about this rock, that if any one will come and kiss it all alone at midnight, he will be able to plead his love suit in such beautiful language that no woman can resist it, and he can marry whomsoever he wishes. They say, also, that old Baron Baranoff used to have this rock for his favorite resting-place, and that he would sit here in the hot sun, drinking still hotter brandy, until his servants would have to carry him home to the castle and put him to bed.

Yet the most interesting of all is, perhaps, the old castle itself. It is built on a high rock foundation and overlooks the town and the bay. It is now almost falling to decay, but every room is filled with voices which tell of times long passed away. The voices in the dining-hall tell the saddest stories. This hall was once the gayest spot in America, and the dinners that were served here were as brilliant as those of the Czar's own court, whose pomp and ceremony were repeated in Baranoff Castle at Sitka. Now there is nothing left but crumbling walls and broken window-panes. When the beautiful young niece of old Baron Romanoff was brought from St. Petersburg to Sitka, to remove her from a lover of low birth, it was in this banquet hall that the tragedy of her death occurred. They forced her to wed a Russian nobleman whom she detested, and in the midst of the wedding celebration she was found in the deserted banquet hall with a dagger thrust through her heart. It was never known whether she took her own life in a fit of despair, or whether her bridegroom murdered her because he was jealous, or whether her former lover secretly followed and killed her sooner than to give her up to any one else; but here she was found, cold and dead in her fine bridal garments. The Sitka people say that her ghost still walks

in the castle, and that any one who lingers alone after midnight in these deserted rooms can hear the rustle of her ghostly robes, and inhale the faint perfume of her wreath of orange blossoms.

Those sad, sweet voices of the past also tell how in one of these deserted rooms, poor Lady Franklin sat and watched and wept in vain for the return of her husband. They cry out in anger that this castle has been pillaged of all its treasures; its fine tapestry hangings, and carvings, and furnishings which the Russians left in it at the time of the transfer, and they plead strongly against the injustice of our Government in allowing it to go to ruin and decay.

More of romance and legend clings around Sitka than around any other spot in the possession of the United States, and our Government cannot afford to let all these points of interest and tradition fall into hopeless ruin, as will soon happen if some means are not adopted for their preservation.

The evening before we left Sitka we climbed to the roof of the castle for a last sight of the sunset over the bay. Alva took his violin and played that series of tone portraits on the ladies of the Russian court, by Rubenstein. While he played it seemed to me I could see those handsome ladies moving about through the halls of the old deserted castle. The witty and brilliant Baroness Wrangell, the stately Baroness Kupreanoff, and the sad and lovely young princess Romanoff were all there, gracefully stepping the measures of the minuet. The sunset flushed everything with lights of rose and purple and gold. The green islands that dot the bay glowed like emeralds. Mt. Edgecombe stood all rose-colored, with misty, fleecy cloud wreaths lying in its crater where Ah-gisháhu-akhow went through into the bosom of the earth.

The twilight faded to amethyst, and deepened to the still darker shades of night. Then Alva played the "Evening Hymn to the Virgin," and after that we silently groped our way down the rickety stairway of the gloomy castle, with tears in our eyes. Such was our farewell of beautiful Sitka, for another hour found us on board our vessel. With much groaning and creaking, as if it shared our reluctance to leave such a charming spot, the anchor was slowly raised, and soon we were sailing toward the dawn.