Excerpt

“Is it a man, or is it a young Polar bear standing on end?” Had any one seen that strange figure, shuffling slowly to and fro on the snow-clad Polar ice on this bitterly cold morning late in winter, he might have been excused for asking himself that question.

All around was a scene of desolation such as can only be witnessed in Arctic seas at this season of the year. Desolation? Yes; but beautiful desolation—a desolation that held one spellbound in silent, solemn admiration. It had been a long, long night of just three months or nearly, and yesterday the sun—glad herald of the opening season—had glinted over the southern horizon for one brief spell, then sunk again in golden glory.