802 
ROUTINE LIFE. 
“This done, comes the dressing — the two pairs of 
stockings, the three under-shirts, the fur outer rohing, 
and the seal-skin hoots ; and then, with a hurried cough 
of disgust and semi-suffocation, he is on deck. There 
the air, pure and sharply cold, now about 26° or 30^, 
last week 40° below zero, braces you up like peach 
and honey in a Virginia fog, or a tass of mountain 
dew in the Highlands. Then to breakfast. Here 
are the mess, with the fresh smell of overnight undis- 
turbed, and on our table griddle cakes of Indian meal, 
hominy, and mackerel : with hot coffee and good ap- 
petites, we fall to manfully. 
“ Breakfast over, on go the furs again ; and we es- 
cape from the accumulating fumes of ‘ servants’ hall,’ 
walking the floes, or climbing to the tops, till we are 
frozen enough to go below again. One hour spent now 
in an attempt at study — vainly enough, poor devil ! 
But he does try, and what little he does is done then. 
By half past ten our entire little band of officers are 
out upon the floes for a bout at anti-scorbutic exercise, 
a game of romps : first foot-hall, at which we kick till 
our legs ache ; next sliding, at which we slide until 
we can slide no more : then off, with carbine on shoul- 
der, and Henri as satellite, on an ice-tramp. 
“Coming hack, dinner lags at two. Then for the 
afternoon — God spare the man who can with un- 
scathed nose stand the effluvium. But night follows 
soon, and with it the saddening question. What has 
the day achieved ? And then we stretch ourselves out 
under the hatches, and sleep to the music of our thirty 
odd room-mates. 
February 14, Friday. A glorious day, with the sun 
from nine to half past two. Three bergs seen by re- 
fraction. The mercury rose to +2 OA^er a black surface 
turned toward the sun. To-day the usual foot-hall. 
