Silently the boat crept nearer. Without a sound, it grated against the shore. Armed with their clubs and one or two firearms, the men leaped towards the herd. Instantly the seals were awake, their heads were thrown up, their big lustrous eyes turned wonderingly. Then in terror at the onrushing horde of men, with short sharp barks and yelps of fear, they commenced scrambling towards the sea and safety. But the men, led by the Eskimos, had spread in a half circle. They were between the seals and the water. As the first panic-stricken creatures reached the shouting, yelling crew, the heavy clubs rose and fell with dull, sickening thuds. The seals dropped dying in their tracks and the others, turning, strove blindly to get away from these new enemies.
“Gosh, it makes me sick!” exclaimed Tom as he saw the slaughter of the poor helpless creatures. “It’s worse than killing sea elephants. No more sealing for me!”
“Nor me either,” declared Jim, “it’s just murder. And aren’t they pretty things!”
In a few moments it was all over. The beach and ice were strewn with the dead seals—not a single one had escaped—and the men, flushed and perspiring with exertion, and shouting triumphantly, tossed aside their bludgeons and commenced stripping the hides from the dead seals.
The two boys shouldered their rifles and started along the beach towards the glacier, now and then stopping to pick up some odd shell or bright-colored pebble. Once they came to a tiny brook brawling over the stones and followed it into a little valley, rich green with grass and brilliant with scarlet poppies and bright golden yellow flowers. From almost under Tom’s feet, a ptarmigan whirred up and stopping, the boys discovered the nest filled to overflowing with the heavily spotted brown eggs. A moment later Jim had his turn as he flushed a black and white snow bunting and found its cleverly hidden nest and spotted green eggs in their bed of fur and down. All about, from waving weeds stalks and jutting bowlders, buntings and longspurs, gray sparrows and dainty horned larks twittered and sang. From far up in the blue sky came a sweet rollicking song as a lark soared and bubbled over with joy. The boys, seating themselves on a ledge of rock, looked silently about, enjoying the peaceful scene and unable to believe that this warm sun, these bright flowers, these trilling birds were in far-off Greenland, a land they had always pictured as barren, desolate, and cold. Then, as they retraced their steps towards the beach, Jim jumped as a big Arctic hare leaped from its resting place and went bounding off among the rocks.
“Whew, he was a whopper!” cried Tom. “Why didn’t you shoot him, Jim? He’d have tasted fine for a change from canned meat.”
Jim laughed. “I was so startled I forgot I had a gun,” he admitted, “and say, I’m rather glad I did. Somehow I’d hate to shoot anything here, it’s so pretty and happy.”
“Well, I guess we can struggle along without stewed rabbit for a while yet,” said Tom. “It does seem kind of a shame to kill anything here.”
“The men aren’t half through yet,” announced Jim as the two boys reached the beach once more. “Say, Tom, let’s walk over to the glacier.”
“All right,” agreed Tom readily, “it isn’t far and it will be fine to see it close to. Say, doesn’t the Narwhal look like a speck off there—with all these big hills round!”