On the vast plains of ice that are formed in the winter-time the snow lies thickly, and yet upon such an inhospitable spot the mother seal has to make a home for her tender young. This she does in the following manner:—
She has already preserved a “breathing hole” in the ice, through which she can inhale air. How she finds so small a hole under the surface of the ice, where there are no landmarks to guide her, is a marvel to every swimmer. She has to chase fish and follow them in all their winding courses, and yet, when she is in want of air, is able to go straight to her breathing hole, and there take in a fresh supply of oxygen.
When she is about to become a mother, she enlarges this breathing hole so as to make it into a perpendicular tunnel. She then, with the sharp nails of her fore-paws, or flippers, scoops away the snow in a dome-like form, as shown in the illustration, taking the snow down with her through the ice, and allowing it to be carried away by the water. By degrees she makes a tolerably large excavation of a hemispherical shape, and when her young is born she deposits it on the ice-ledge around the tunnel. From ordinary foes the young Seal is safe, and nothing can discover the position of the house unless guided by the sense of smell.
How the Polar Bear and the Esquimaux hunter discover the dwelling and capture the inmates we have already described in the chapter treating of War and Hunting. Our present business is with the dwelling itself. Comparatively few of these snow-houses, or igloos, as they are called, are discovered, and they remain intact until the summer sun melts the roof and exposes the habitation. By this time, however, the young Seal has grown sufficiently to shift for itself, and no longer needs the shelter of a dwelling.
The winter hut, or igloo, of the Esquimaux is made of exactly the same shape and of similar materials to the dwelling of the Seal, the chief difference being that it is built instead of excavated.
In order to save time, the igloo is generally erected by two men, one of whom supplies the material, and the other acts as bricklayer and architect in one. Each begins by tracing a suitably sized circle in the snow, which he clears away to some depth, so as to preserve a firm surface, either as a floor or as the material for the wall. In this work both men are equally valuable, for the skill required to cut the slabs of snow into such a shape that they can be formed into a hemispherical dome is quite as much as that which is needed for putting them together. I will call them the cutter and the builder. Sometimes a young hand is employed by way of labourer, and passes the snow slabs to the builder as fast as they are cut.
The builder receives the slabs, and arranges them in regular order, always taking care to “break the joints,” just as do our bricklayers of the present day. Always remaining within the circle, he gradually builds himself in, and when he has quite finished the house, he cuts a hole through the side, emerges, and, by the help of his partner, puts on the finishing touches. He usually also adds a sort of tunnel to the door, through which any one must creep on his hands and knees if he wishes to enter the igloo. This part of Esquimaux architecture will presently be noticed more in full.
Perhaps the reader may wish to know what provision there is for ventilation. The answer is simple enough. There is none, the Esquimaux not requiring ventilation any more than they require washing. The two, indeed, generally go together; and it may be observed, even in our own country, that those who object to fresh air, and are always complaining of draughts, have a very practical aversion to the use of fresh water, and but little confidence in what Thackeray calls the “flimsy artifices of the bath.”
The Esquimaux never washes, and knows not the use of linen. Consequently, it is no matter of surprise that a sailor of Captain Hall’s crew could not make up his mind to enter an igloo. “Whew!” exclaimed the man, “by thunder, I’m not going in there! It’s crowded, and smells horribly. How it looms up!”
Considering that there were inside that igloo a dozen Esquimaux, all feasting on a raw, newly killed, and yet warm seal, the sailor had reason enough to decline a visit. Captain Hall, however, determined, in his character of explorer, to brave the strange odours, and moreover to join the inmates in their feast, knowing that as he would have to live among the Esquimaux for some two years, he would be forced to live as they did, and might as well begin at once. Consequently on this resolve, he drank the still steaming blood, and quaffed it from a cup which an Esquimaux woman had just licked clean.