Christmas Eve was ushered in with -35° Fahrenheit. The Fram lay in seventy-nine degrees, eleven minutes, north latitude, two minutes farther south than was the case a week before.
There was a peculiar feeling of solemnity on board. Every one was thinking of home, and trying at the same time to keep his thoughts to himself, and so there was more noise and laughter than usual. They ate and they drank and made speeches, and the Christmas presents were given out, and the Framsjaa, the Fram’s newspaper, with an extra illustrated Christmas number, appeared.
In the poem for the day it said:—
“When the ship is hemmed in by ice fathom-thick,
When we drift at the will of the stream,
When the white veil of winter is spread all around,
In our sleep of our dear home we dream.
Let us wish them a right merry Christmas at home,
Good luck may the coming year bring;
We’ll be patient and wait, for the Pole we will gain,