The Man of Klondike

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXXIV, Issue 6, 8 February 1906, Page 2

The Man of Klondike

The mythical Jason was a sorry hero compared with many a one of the nameless units of humanity who undertake the fearful journey per mare, per terras, to reach the ice-beleagured gold-fields of Klondike. Jason, in his search for the Golden Fleece of Colchis, had only to tame a few bulls that breathed fire (like a ' Glorious Twelfth ' orator), kill oft a few armed men, and circumvent a stage dragon that kept a sleepless watch upon the prize. And the black magic of his ladye-love, Medea, made his expedition a picnic long drawn out. But the adventurous modern Jason who sets out to win the golden fleece from the modern Colchis, Klondike, has, without the aid of magic, black or white, to face much fiercer enemies in the shape of hunger, scurvy, perpetual ice and snow, and savage cold. * In the December number of ' Donahoe's Magazine","* a non-Catholic journalist, Mr. Arnold F. George, describes the hardships of a journey made by him some years ago over the Chilcoot Pass— through the Valley of Death, as we may call it— to the great El Dorado of the Arctic Circle. It was in the early days of the wild rush of gold-seeking adventurers to the wintry shores of far Alaska. The Jesuit missionaries were already on the spot, seeking to save, not gold, but the more precious souls of men. The name of Father Judge was already one to oonjure with in Klondike. Yet, the journalist had been an hour in the city of canvas tents and had not yet heard of Father Judge. ' Well,' said a surprised friend and twelve-months' resident of the place, ' all I've got to say is that you are forgetting your newspaper business, if you've been here an hour and haven't learnt of Father Judge. I guess he's a priest. Don't i know much about those things anyhow. But I do know as he's saved I don't know how many lives this winter. I reckon he was the only one of us as had time, or wasn't crazy about gold. Saved more'n a thousand. Doctors all mining, and the bummest lot you ever saw. Charged two ounces a visit, and the sick fellows mostly broke, or they wouldn't a'been sick. Any way ! You just ought to know Father Judge. He's the biggest jollier— the merriest fellow you ever met. When he runs out of medicine, he goes and gets a lot of bark and spruce boughs, and he's kept a whole lot of 'em alive up there, waiting for medicine to come in.' The visitor went to Father Judge's hospital to greet and cheer a sick friend who had been down with scurvy j for six months. ' So you've seen Father Judge ! ' said the patient. Then, with the cohfident smile of a man who knows the inevitable answer : ' What d'ye think of him ? ' The journalist agreed that the big-hearted Jesuit missionary was ' sort of popular ' about there. ' Popular ! ' echoed the patient in protest. ' Don't use the word " popular " here. He's the finest man that G-od ever put a soul into. Where'd we all have been this winter without him, I'd like to know ? He's just killing himself trying to take care of everybody.' 'I'm sure he's a fgiood man,' said the journalist, synvi pathetically. After a pause, he queried : ' You're not a Catholic ? ' ' Oh,' said the patient, ' that doesn't cut any figure here. Why, God bless me, here's a bunch of sixteen of us here nowun the room, and not a blessed Catholic in •'the lot— unless it's Jack, over there. But Father Judgo is making Catholics fast. Never preaches or talks doc-

trine or forms of faith, you know, unless you ask him or show him your mind is uneasy on that score. No ! He just does all a mortal man can do for you, and evidently wishes he could do more. Then he jollies you and goes to church, and you feel you'd give one of '•your two useless legs if you could follow him. Whist ! Here he comes.'