Eight months of winter! Those who have read and entered into the spirit of Arctic voyagers, may have some idea of what that means, but none save he or she who has had experience of it can fully¹ understand it.

 

To us who dwelt at the little outpost in the Great Nor’-west, snow and ice had become so familiar—such matter-of-course conditions of existence—that green fields and flowers were a mere² reminiscence of the remote past. The scent³ of a rose was a faded memory—indeed the scent of anything belonging to the vegetable kingdom had not once saluted⁵ our nostrils⁶ during those eight months. Pure white became one of the chief and most impressive facts of our existence in regard to colour, if we may so call it—white, varying in tone, of course, to pearly grey. Cold, of varied⁷ intensity⁸, was the chief modifier of our sensations. Happily light was also a potent⁹ factor in our experiences—bright, glowing sunshine and blue skies contrasted well with the white and grey, and helped to counteract¹⁰ the cold; while pure air invigorated our frames and cheered our spirits.

 

“I tell you what, boys,” said Lumley, one afternoon as he entered the hall with gun and snow-shoes on shoulder, and flung down a bag full of ptarmigan, “winter is drawing to a close at last. I felt my deerskin coat quite oppressive to-day; does any one know what the thermometer stood at this morning?”

 

“Yes, it was twenty-two above zero,” answered Spooner, who was attempting to smoke a pipe beside the stove; “I went to register it just after breakfast.”

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