Читать книгу Arqtiq: A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole - Anna Adolph - Страница 3

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Always fond of the marvelous, I conceived a strong desire to go to the North Pole.

To obviate the dangers of the trip I invented a coach, that was also ship and balloon. Its silken canopy is inflatable to strong wings or wide sails. Its wheels are wide rimmed, to glide over snow, and paneled for water paddles. When it is finished and stored I select some friends to accompany me. My most personal loved ones. A volatile fair-haired gent—my husband, and a fair-haired little maiden friend, sit on the front seat. On the back seat are sitting my aged father and myself, our black eyes snapping with expectation.

Waving my hands to the few gathered to see us off, I say: “This undertaking is of desire to gain knowledge. Success, surmounting all obstacles will take us to the summit of the round earth, where, ages past as ages future will accord us first record.”

Charley turns levers to start, as little Mae’s mamma says: “You will be the Mascot, Mae Searles. But I do not think you will go very far,” dubiously.

“You will change your mind, mamma, when I bring you home a little bear,” makes us laugh.

“I will be glad to get you for my little bear.”

“All the rest of us,” I answered, “will take care of her.”

“No doubt,” she replies, “as far as you go in your odd rig,” facetiously.

Our wheels turn slowly and silently. Then with a low tinkling of the strain, “Good Bye, Sweet Heart,” Mae had slipped her music box in one, wound to that harmony.

We are Californians and take the C. P. railroad for our eastward route, our wheels being grooved to fit the track. Speeding merrily, we give vent to our imaginations of coming events.

“Will there really be a pole, Auntie?”

“That is for us to find out, dear. I sometimes think there is a stem there covered with ice, that holds the earth to an apple planet tree.”

“But the astronomers would have seen the tree,” argues my father.

“They could not look so far. Only as far as the other star apples. May not the Milky Way be a branch?” I suggest.

We now become aware that a train is approaching on the single track that is hanging over the grade on the canyon side. We have no choice but to unfurl our wings and rise in the air, as the engineer wildly blows his whistle. Brushing the pine tree tops, we cross over the peak and seek the track on the other side of it, selecting an opening in a thicket for that purpose.

Finding it occupied by miners digging away, we hallo, when they look every way but up, as we land in their midst as though dropped from the sky. Their consternation is depicted in set jaws, as we give military salute and roll off.

This feat, so skilfully accomplished, denotes an expert hand in our motorman, who had been practicing faithfully, as a bird to fly, a swimmer or cyclist. As exhilarant to him as to us, and much lessened our distance, causes Mae to clap her hands and ask, “Why not fly all the time?”

“We want to save that force until we have more serious need,” Charley replies. “I hope that poor boy who fell over the log while eating his breakfast and ran away, will recover and go back,” makes us all laugh uproariously, when zipp! whir-r!! over we go and lay on our side, the wheels still revolving.

The grade just here, level from the ground excavated by the miners, saved us from a serious mishap. To have rolled to the Canyon River would have damaged us greatly. As it is we cannot recover the track without that descent. So we twist our car upright (we are fastened in our seats), square it to the hill and down we go, losing our breath as we plump splashing into the water.

Our bonny wheels take paddle stroke and carry us, laughing over, and up the opposite bank to the track there, in its sinuous course.

“We laughed too quick,” says father. “That friend at whom we laughed dropped that fork on the rail. I see him behind that boulder.”

We leave the narrow-gauge track at its terminus without stopping, and have no other special accident in this vicinity.

The sun has chased frost and rose hues the higher snow peaks. Sierra Nevada (snowy) in its most interesting locality is around. Having come on the narrow-gauge railroad that connects the two largest and oldest of the mining cities with the broad-gauge of the Central Pacific, we are rounding out on the latter over the famous Cape Horn. Spring is in her first freshness. We sniff its fragrance, as we shall continue to do, following its pioneer march until our arrival at our destination to enjoy our summer at the pole, where it is most enjoyable and the only tolerable season. From apparently bare ground are flying the cyclamen banners of the johnny-jump-up. The blue sage (sun dial) gives a lake of national colors, interspersed with the scarlet of the gorgeous fireweed, whose leaves and blossoms glow alike. Mae gleefully reaches to a dogwood lily (artist’s favorite), then snatches a tuft of pink primrose that covers a bank and decorates its edge, while I cook the breakfast upon our steam heater. It is so late I make it serve for dinner also. Putting omelette and ripe strawberries beside the spinach and wild duck. As I finish Mae emits a long whistle, as a red-breasted linnet—the first—flies close to us to get our sweet food company, then sings, to earn it and call its family.

The chapparal is faintly green. But the manzanita—sung of poets, or ought to be—in its immaculate green leaves adorning the winter, with red stems of eternal beauty, is covered with pink waxen sprays, as fragrant, as it is like, the lily of the valley. A momentary regret comes to leave in California this worshipped shrub. Its blossoms develop to little green-apple fruit, the size of peas, of edible flavor. Manzanita is the Indian name for little apple.

Charley appreciates my feelings as he calls out, “Take a last look,” when father, to turn the tide, passes the muffins. Our glance down the mountain side falls upon a ranch, tiny in the depths; a maid of midget size throws invisible corn to mice-size chickens that flock around; Charley hurls deftly a cracker toward them that falls far short upon the mountain side. My spirits rise. To be here sings a grateful pæan in my breast. To write it is not half the story.

I remember lovingly the sister cities left behind. Mining born and golden reared, with their Californian continual lawns, social halls and grand hotels for the floating population, this last much improved by the efforts of the Salvation Army, who have charmed the crowd to good behavior as they enjoy appreciatively their sweet-voiced pleadings.

I look out at the country, dotted with quartz-mill chimneys, with their heavy roar, as the heavy stamp crushes the granite to free the gold imprisoned in their bastille. To all we bid good-bye, as we turn Cape Horn, and though still among the clouds, we see and hear the rushing river below. As all streams here are given to chatty hilarity, I think once more of the one where oft I have walked on trailed path.

I muse on until in time we salute the desert plain, with its sage brush and dog cities. Stations are not hailed by us (as in time a small crowd awaits us). Silently we appear; like a shadow disappear.

Our seats are so constructed that we can stand and exercise, rock or lie down at ease. Partaking our meals without alighting, we have no occasion to lose time. Our casing open, banners flying. I have brought handwork and books. Father is carving on some queer rotary wheel that gives three separate motions. Charley and Mae, on the seat in front, amuse each other and call us to the special sights.

Chicago! We leisurely arrive and traverse silently, street after street, sadly impressed that the continuous magnificence in equality of buildings, found nowhere else, was dearly bought.

Citizens are crowding our path; obstructing our progress by their progressive ardor, for some one has telegraphed them of our intended exploration; to our unexpected aspirations, unheeding our desires, they hurrah lustily for our success.

Thanking them, we start on, grateful in our hearts for their sympathy. We do not stop in any other city, even passing over the suspension bridge quite silently, though lost in ecstasy at its cataract view.

Evading detention in New York, we whirl over the Brooklyn Bridge without minding the many curious gazers.

Arriving at Coney Island beach, though a storm is coming on, we light our interior and in the dusk are about to drop into the sea. A shout goes up outside and strong hands hold us. Near us is a carriage whose horses we had frightened. In it is an aged man of martial bearing, who recognizes my father.

“Oh, it is you, is it, meandering at night like a firebug. Turn around now and go home with me,” he said, cordially.

“Haven’t time; we are bound to the North Pole.” Hurrying up so quickly, we break away and sink beneath the toppling waves.

Pelted and tossed all night we welcome daylight; but flash, crack, roar, we draw ourselves closer together, and sink in the depths beneath the turmoil, to find other disturbance. A massed army of swordfish hold battle-front with glowing eyes to an opposing array of giant whales, who ponderously coming, lash the sea into a vortex.

The two columns colliding, the first leap in white streaks, curl, and land on the latter’s backs, dip and dye their swords. The whales shake them off and beat them to death in myriads, to be followed by myriads more, until the sea is red, when suddenly the cavalry swords fly, disappearing in the distance.

The victorious artillery, the whales, blow themselves, weariedly. We go closer to them—too close—as they are a warrior band. A big general opens his mouth towards us, disconcerting to our stomachs; we beat a hasty retreat to a safe distance, where we watch the camp followers, a jumbling mass of veritable sea monsters.

When all is quiet we rise to the surface, to find it quiet there, too. The sun shining brightly on an iceberg, whose edge, sending up a few whale spouts, resolves it into a fountainous white island.

I muse aloud! “Does the under war cause the upper war, or vice versa? What is war? Ocean’s elements and life as restless as man. Plant-life and rocks, also, struggle and upheave. Why is war? Resulting only to change. God’s evolution but a program of variety.” I study it thus, in inspiration, hoping it leads to fore-destined improvement.

I am hearing the word Arbitration. “Oh, yes, papa; when arbitration stops men’s wars, will the elements follow, and what then?”