Then comes the evening meal. The stewpot is taken from the slings and set in front of the mistress of the igloo. The sturdy men and children crowd round her and each one is served with a generous piece of sealmeat. They hold it in their hands to eat. Each bronzed or wind-blackened face glows with enjoyment and contentment in the homely lamplight, and an atmosphere of unfeigned goodwill and cheer dominates the little group. The hungry folk whose husbands and fathers have not been successful all day simply distribute themselves through the village, and share the food of the lucky. The captor of to-day may return empty handed to-morrow, when he may look for hospitality to his guests of to-night. As soon as the meal in the pot is finished, the soup is poured out into a drinking bowl and handed round, each one taking a good pull in turn. The air soon reeks—the tight-packed assemblage of unwashed humanity, the stench of seal oil and blubber, the strong odours from the pot and the exhalations of garments spread out on the racks to dry, all contribute to the malodorous atmosphere. But what of that to those accustomed to nothing else, to whom the whole means warmth and plenty and the nearness of his own, in the frozen immensity of the awful arctic world without? As soon as the meal is done the day’s catch of seals is cut up. Each animal is placed on its back on the floor, opened and dismembered, and pieces of the meat and blubber are given to the needy. Open hospitality is the law of the land in the Arctics. Travellers, whether native or European, are always sure of welcome and shelter on reaching an Eskimo village. On these occasions the stranger is always the first to be served from the generous family stew. This sanguinary and odoriferous business being despatched, and the neighbours having taken themselves off, the door is fixed for the night—the door being a slab of snow cut to fit the main entrance to the igloo, and set on one side during the day. The lamps are trimmed to a low flame, wet clothes are spread on the drying frames above them, and each member of the family rolls up in a fur blanket on the sleeping bench and so goes to bed. Occasionally the mother wakes up, to trim the lamps and turn the clothes during the night. She will be the first to wake and rise in the morning, since it is part of the woman’s work “which is never done,” to rub and soften the leathern clothing of her good man and the boys, which had hardened in drying while they slept.