We find good entertainment with pleasant people who are willing to aid us in our endeavor for knowledge, yet solemnly warn us not to dare the dangers ahead. They stock us with dried meat; supply us with double sealskin outfits; in fact, sealskins line our sleigh to aid in keeping us warm. They end by giving us their uttermost paths.
Had our home friends in California been more solicitous, and amused themselves less at our expense, at this juncture we would have returned to them, for our hearts are dropping like lead. But our pride aids us, as our eyes bravely scan the pole star ahead.
“Mae, do you want to go home?” as I see her wipe the tears out of her big blue eyes.
“Not I; this is the best part of it. Only the frosty air makes me cry.”
“Do you not want to see your mamma?”
“Yes, but I will have so much more to tell her,” waking to enthusiasm and paramount faith.
Polished ice-glass in hand I firmly wave adieu.
In the last few days of our stay have been finished preparations for what, to the nation, is a centennial celebration. A barbecue is held on an ice glittering plaza. Emerald ice tables, chamois-clothed, hold a wondrous feast. Whole reindeer rigs, the sledge a pastry; great Christmas trees are confections. This now engages the crowds.
We rub our hands together, and, shall I say it, our noses, in local fashion of “good bye,” as our prow points north.
We have carefully selected this season of the year, with intent to follow the continual dawn light—night and day—of this region, which yet faint, is hardly sufficient to keep us moving swiftly, when, lo, near us darts up a bright glare, followed by others, around and ahead, as far as we can see, illumining the air. They are bonfires of the celebration. Heaps of cones, added to yearly, surround a ring of pine trees, the center a tall, hollow trunk as chimney. The gorgeous flickering of glory, I feel to believe, is miles in extent.