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Thursday, July 1. Slept on the floor of a little store last night at Ghost Creek. The Catholic mission at Holy Cross, with all sorts of room, about 1½ miles down, and where, though late and tired, I visited Father Jules Jetté, a renowned student of the dialects of the Yukon Indians, did not offer to accommodate me, and the trader in their village could only offer me a "bunk" in one little room with three other people. So after 10 p. m. we went down to the "Ghost Creek," where I was gladly given a little corner in the store of Alec Richardson. Of course there were whining dogs outside, right next to the store on both sides, and they sang at times (or howled) like wolves, whose blood they seem to carry. And a cat got closed in with me and was pulling dried fish about, which she chewed, most of the night it seemed. So there was not much sleep until from about 5 a. m. to 8.30, after the cat was chased out and the dogs got weary. Then no breakfast till near 9.30.

Went to mission again to see Father Jetté—he is not of the mission—a fine old Frenchman and scholar. He was not responsible for last night and anyway I was spoiled farther up the river. His meritorious work deserves to be known and published.

After a very simple lunch packed yesterday's collections from the Bonasila site—five boxes. The parcel post here alone will cost $20.40. How odd that the transportation of the collections of a Government institution must be paid for from the little appropriation received for scientific work to another department of the same Government.

It is cloudy, drizzly, cold. Am endeavoring to leave to-morrow, but they want $35 to the next station, and the boat does not leave for St. Michael until the 11th. Fortunately I am able to send away the collections, and there will surely be some way down the river.