374 ICE-BOUND ON KOLGUEV 
perhaps I may yet write the story of our travels from the 
Kolokolkova gulf to old England itself. 
How we lived with the natives, and the friends we 
made, how we attended a peasant wedding, and of the 
quaint ceremonies that followed on it, how we crossed 
the Petchora and took the horses over the half-frozen 
Tsilma river, how we wandered in the forests, and how 
we slept at nights, how we crossed a deep stream on 
trees which were thrown from bank to ice, how the 
wolves came and carried off a pony, how a midnight row 
came about on the ice of the Volga—all these and many 
other incidents would be there particularly described. 
And now I take my leave. My honest companion, 
Thomas Hyland, is once more at home and happily 
united to the girl of his choice, with my very best 
wishes for his future success. It would take more than 
ten thousand reindeer, I think, to get him again to 
Kolguev. 
Old Sailor, too, has done with travelling. Happy and 
safe in an English kennel, he is doubtless proving a 
mine of yarns to his poor untravelled companions. 
Sometimes when he lies asleep he will yap and growl 
amazingly, while curious twitchings take him. And 
then I think he is holding his own with the wolf-like 
dogs of Kolguev. 
It is May in England as I write these closing words. 
It would be hard to conceive a greater contrast than that 
of Kolguev (with its fog-swept wastes, its wild life—half 
