Костер

           Dayhadbrokencoldandgrey,exceedinglycoldandgrey,whenthemanturnedasidefromthemainYukontrailandclimbedthehighearth-bank,whereadimandlittle-travelledtrailledeastwardthroughthefatsprucetimberland. Itwasasteepbank,andhepausedforbreathatthetop,excusingtheacttohimselfbylookingathiswatch. Itwasnineo’clock. Therewasnosunnorhintofsun,thoughtherewasnotacloudinthesky. Itwasaclearday,andyetthereseemedanintangiblepalloverthefaceofthings,asubtlegloomthatmadethedaydark,andthatwasduetotheabsenceofsun. Thisfactdidnotworrytheman. Hewasusedtothelackofsun. Ithadbeendayssincehehadseenthesun,andheknewthatafewmoredaysmustpassbeforethatcheerfulorb,duesouth,wouldjustpeepabovethesky-lineanddipimmediatelyfromview. 

           Themanflungalookbackalongthewayhehadcome. TheYukonlayamilewideandhiddenunderthreefeetofice. Ontopofthisicewereasmanyfeetofsnow. Itwasallpurewhite,rollingingentleundulationswheretheice-jamsofthefreeze-uphadformed. Northandsouth,asfarashiseyecouldsee,itwasunbrokenwhite,saveforadarkhair-linethatcurvedandtwistedfromaroundthespruce-coveredislandtothesouth,andthatcurvedandtwistedawayintothenorth,whereitdisappearedbehindanotherspruce-coveredisland.