"'Gi'me my mail, quick!' he says to Windy, who had tinkered up a one-night stand post-office and dealt out letters, at five dollars per let.'
"'Nothing doing,' says Windy.
"'Oh, yes there is,' he replies, still smiling; 'she writes me every week.'
"'I got all there was at Dawson,' Windy give back, 'and there ain't a thing for you!'
"I consider the tragedy of this north country lies in its mail service. Uncle Sam institutes rural deliveries, so the bolomen can register poisoned arrowheads to the Igorrotes in exchange for recipes to make roulade of naval officer, but his American miners in Alaska go shy on home news for eight months every year.