It is another Klondike--and we know it--Jim Hawes
there, by your elbow, knows it and complains not. And there's Hitchcock!
He sews moccasins like an old woman, and waits against the time. Only
you can't wait and work until the wash-up in the spring. Then we shall
all be rich, rich as kings, only you cannot wait. You want to go back to
the States. So do I, and I was born there, but I can wait, when each day
the gold in the pan shows up yellow as butter in the churning. But you
want your good time, and, like a child, you cry for it now. Bah! Why
shall I not sing:
"In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe,
I shall stay no more away.
Then if you still are true, my love,
It will be our wedding day.
In a year, in a year, when my time is past,
Then I'll live in your love for aye.
Then if you still are true, my love,
It will be our wedding day."
The dogs, bristling and growling, drew in closer to the firelight. There
was a monotonous crunch-crunch of webbed shoes, and between each crunch
the dragging forward of the heel of the shoe like the sound of sifting
sugar.
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