By E.J. “Stroller” White
“If that open space out thar in the river beyant [beyond] the N. A. T. & R. Co.'s warehouse freezes up smooth and without any drift ice getting in it, thar'll be as fine a crop of ice worms thar by the middle of February as was ever seed in ary country on earth. I told you about ice worms last winter, but ye tried to guy me about it [ridicule], and acted as though ye didn't believe me. But anytime after the mercury has been 65 degrees below zero ten days at a stretch and I can find a tract of smooth, glass ice whar thar ain't never been no drift ice in, I can find ice worms as big as wienerwursts, and with hossradish or mustard are a heap better eaten. Twenty-seven years ago when I lived whar Klondike City now is me and my squaw uster [used to] start down the river in January every year and, by gum, we’d go to Fort Yukon, but what we’d have a good “bate” of ice worms.”
Sill the Stroller looked incredulous, which appeared to wound the feelings of the old man, who muttered as he mosted off, followed by his three-legged dog:
”Since George Carmack and other tenderfeet came to the country it ain’t been worth a cuss fer nothing’, and nobody won’t believe solid facts when they hear ’em.”
