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Show 37 Every few days I walked nine miles on the overland trail to Dyea to check on my supplies-and to break in ray boots. During those weeks I chopped wood for Mrs. Pullen and piled it in her woodshed in stacks higher than my head. I kept busy days. It was the evenings that were lonely. I stayed in my room, thinking of Rexy lying under the snow. Thinking of Pa. And feeling like a stupid sphinx. Each night out in the parlor the Flower Girls and the stampeders socialized. They played Mrs. Pullen1 s gramophone, taking turns winding it until their arms must have ached. They were crazy over the new ragtime music, and they danced to the "Mississippi Rag" until their feet must have ached, too. The other song they played was "Where Is My Wandering Boy Tonight?," which was a mournful thing to hear every night with the wind howling outside and the tar paper flapping. Where is my wandering boy tonight, The boy of my tenderest care, The boy that was once my joy and light, The child of my love and prayer? Oh where is my boy tonight? Oh where is my boy tonight? My heart o'er-flows, for I love him he knows. Oh where is my boy tonight? |