308 
THE SCURVY. 
dark bird of winter, clings to the in-sliore deserts. The 
tern are far away, and so, thank Heaven, are the 
musquitoes. There are no hugs in the blankets, no 
nits in the hair, no maggots in the cheese. No specks 
of life glitter in the sunshine, no sounds of it float 
upon the air. We are without a single sign, a single 
instinct of living thing. 
“ If now, with the thermometer eighty degrees he- 
low the freezing point, and the new sun casting a 
cold gray sheen upon the snow, you leave the thirty- 
one, to whom you are the thirty-second, and walk out 
upon the ice away off — so far that no click of hammer 
nor drone of voice places you in relation with that 
little outside world — then you will know how I felt 
when I caught that ‘creeping wonder’ on my rein- 
deer hood. It was a frozen feather. 
February 27, Thursday. An aurora passing through 
the zenith, east and west, at 3h. 30m. this morning. 
What little wind we have is coming feebly from the 
west and southwest. The thermometer has traveled 
from —40° to —31°, and the sun is out again in benign 
lustre. A difference of 27°, due to his influence, was 
evident as early as lOh. 20m., viz. : Green’s spirit 
standard gave, in shade, -33°; over black surface, in 
sunshine, -7° and -6°. At noonday, the same ther- 
mometer gave +2. My glass — cased, hot-house like, 
gave the pleasant deception of +40°. 
“ Still the scurvy increases. I am down myself to- 
day with all the premonitories. It is strangely de- 
pressing: a concentrated ‘fresh cold’ pain extends 
searchingly from top to toe. I am so stiff that it is 
only by an effort that I can walk the deck, and that 
limpingly. Once out on the floes, my energies excited 
and my blood warmed by exercise, I can tramp away 
freely; hack again, I stiffen. 
