THE LABORS. 
173 
which it does not tell of. Our fuel is limited to three 
bucketfuls of coal a day, and our mean temperature 
outside is 40° below zero; 46° below as I write. Lon¬ 
don Brown Stout, and somebody’s Old Brown Sherry, 
freeze in the cabin lockers; and the carlines overhead 
are hung with tubs of chopped ice, to make water for 
our daily drink. Our lamps cannot be persuaded to 
burn salt lard; our oil is exhausted; and we Avork by 
muddy tapers of cork and cotton floated in saucers. 
We have not a pound of fresh meat, and only a barrel 
of potatoes left. 
“Not a man now, except Pierre and Morton, is ex¬ 
empt from scurvy; and, as I look around upon the pale 
faces and haggard looks of my comrades, I feel that Ave 
are fighting the battle of life at disadvantage, and that 
an Arctic night and an Arctic day age a man more 
rapidly and harshly than a year anywhere else in all 
this Aveary Avorld. 
“March 13, Monday.—Since January, Ave have been 
Avorking at the sledges and other preparations for travel. 
The death of my dogs, the rugged obstacles of the ice, 
and the intense cold have obliged me to reorganize our 
whole equipment. We have had to discard all our 
India-rubber fancy-Avork: canvas shoe-making, fur-sock- 
ing, seAving, carpentering, are all going on; and the 
cabin, our only fire-Avarmed apartment, is the Avork- 
shop, kitchen, parlor, and hall. Pemmican cases are 
thaAving on the lockers; buffalo robes are drying 
around the stove; camp equipments occupy the cor¬ 
ners; and our Avo-begone French cook, Avith an in- 
