394 
RATS, IiATS, RATS. 
ice, and, besides our dividing moss wall between our 
sanctum and the forecastle, we bave built up a rude 
barrier of our iron sheathing to prevent these abomi¬ 
nable rats from gnawing through. It is all in vain. 
They are everywhere already, under the stove, in the 
steward’s lockers, in our cushions, about our beds. If I 
was asked what, after darkness and cold and scurvy, 
are the three besetting curses of our Arctic sojourn, I 
should say, Rats, Rats, Rats. A mother-rat bit my 
finger to the bone last Friday, as I was intruding my 
hand into a bear-skin mitten which she had chosen as 
a homestead for her little family. I withdrew it of 
course with instinctive courtesy; but among them they 
carried ofl’ the mitten before I could suck the finger. 
“ Last week, I sent down Rhina, the most intelligent 
dog of our whole pack, to bivouac in their citadel for¬ 
ward : I thought she might at least be able to defend 
herself against them, for she had distinguished herself 
in the bear-hunt. She slept very well for a couple of 
hours on a bed she had chosen for herself on the top 
of some iron spikes. But the rats could not or would 
not forego the horny skin about her paws; and they 
gnawed her feet and nails so ferociously that we drew 
her up yelping and vanquished.” 
Before I pass from these intrepid and pertinacious 
visitors, let me add that on the whole I am personally 
much their debtor. Through the long winter night, 
Hans used to beguile his lonely hours of watch by 
shooting them with the bow and arrow. The repug¬ 
nance of my associates to share with me the table 
