(First published in McClure's Magazine, Vol. 17, May, 1901)

On every hand stretched the forest primeval, -- the home
of noisy comedy and silent tragedy. Here the struggle for
survival continued to wage with all its ancient brutality.
Briton and Russian were still to overlap in the Land of the
Rainbow's End -- and this was the very heart of it -- nor had
Yankee gold yet purchased its vast domain. The wolf-pack still
clung to the flank of the cariboo-herd, singling out the weak
and the big with calf, and pulling them down as remorselessly
as were it a thousand, thousand generations into the past. The
sparse aborigines still acknowledged the rule of their chiefs
and medicine men, drove out bad spirits, burned their witches,
fought their neighbors, and ate their enemies with a relish
which spoke well of their bellies. But it was at the moment
when the stone age was drawing to a close. Already, over
unknown trails and chartless wildernesses, were the harbingers
of the steel arriving, -- fairfaced, blue-eyed, indomitable
men, incarnations of the unrest of their race. By accident or
design, single-handed and in twos and threes, they came from no
one knew whither, and fought, or died, or passed on, no one
knew whence. The priests raged against them, the chiefs called
forth their fighting men, and stone clashed with steel; but to
little purpose. Like water seeping from some mighty reservoir,
they trickled through the dark forests and mountain passes,
threading the highways in bark canoes, or with their moccasined
feet breaking trail for the wolf-dogs. They came of a great
breed, and their mothers were many; but the fur-clad denizens
of the Northland had this yet to learn. So many an unsung
wanderer fought his last and died under the cold fire of the
aurora, as did his brothers in burning sands and reeking
jungles, and as they shall continue to do till in the fulness
of time the destiny of their race be achieved.