THE WINTER NIGHT lO\ 



plished, we are making our way up the fjord as fast as 

 sail and steam can carry us. On both sides of us the 

 homeland lies smiling in the sun ; and then . . . the 

 sufferings of a thousand days and hours melt into a 

 moment s inexpressible joy. Ugh ! that was a bitter 

 gust — I jump up and walk on. What am I dreaming 

 about! so far yet from the goal — hundreds and hundreds 

 of miles between us, ice and land and ice again. And 

 we are drifting round and round in a ring, bewildered, 

 attaining nothing, only waiting, always waiting, for 

 what } 



"'I dreamt I lay on a grassy bank, 

 And the sun shone warm and clear ; 

 I wakened on a desert isle. 

 And the sky was black and drear.' 



" One more look at the star of home, the one that 

 stood that evening over Cape Chelyuskin, and I creep 

 on board, where the windmill is turning in the cold 

 wind, and the electric light is streaming out from the 

 skylight upon the icy desolation of the Arctic night. 



" Wednesday, November 8th. The storm (which we 

 had had the two previous days) is quite gone down ; 

 not even enouQ-h breeze for the mill. We tried lettino- 

 the dogs sleep on the ice last night, instead of bringing 

 them on board in the evening, as we have been doing 

 lately. The result was that another dog was torn to 

 pieces during the night. It was ' Ulabrand,' the old 

 brown, toothless fellow, that went this time. ' Job ' and 

 ' Moses ' had gone the same way before. Yesterday 



