A variety of birds, very common in these regions, among them the auk, or fulmar (a kind of wild duck), which dives immediately it is pursued. This is, moreover, the way in which these birds seek their food, like all birds of the polar regions, for they live on fish. The steward of the vessel has just killed two with one shot. These birds have a very clumsy flight, their tail is very short, and it is only with the aid of their web feet that they steer themselves. Yesterday, while passing near the Isle of Beeren-Eiland, which was hidden from our view by the fog, we saw myriads of birds of all kinds, among others a large number of sea-gulls. This morning the thermometer stood at 2° above zero (Centigrade), 35·6 Fahr. There was hoar-frost all along the rigging, and the sailors on the watch above cannot be overwarm. We met a Norwegian sailing boat which was hunting walrusses, and had been cruising for several days in sight of Spitzbergen; they gave us some useful hints as to the state of the ice. Every now and then a sailor took soundings; the depth was from 15 to 20 fathoms. The _Virgo_ has just stopped her engines; the officers are holding a council. We are at the 76th degree of latitude, and we have not much further to go in order to reach Ice-Fjord, where we shall put in first before proceeding to Norsk-Oarna. To the right the mountains covered with eternal snow; in front of us an impassable ice-field. There is an open passage near the coast, but the captain does not know the depth of water there. He is examining his charts. We shall have to wait. However, I fear a delay which will not suit Andrée. III The Installation _Wednesday, June 17th, in lat. 77° N._—After having vainly sought a passage during the whole of yesterday, the captain considered it wise to take refuge in the Horn-Sund Bay, a small natural port to the south-east of Spitzbergen, where he cast anchor this morning at four o’clock. Here we are secure from all danger, and shall patiently wait till the sea is open, which will not be long. Our little harbour is a marvel of creation; a ring of mountains covered with snow, the summits of which were this morning veiled in mist. Immense glaciers, from which portions detach themselves with a fearful crash, animate this white landscape, while at the same time they inspire us with a feeling of vague dread. Gigantic icebergs, resembling in their shape and bluish colour immense crystals of copperas, are drifting about in the middle of the bay—a veritable oasis, where the temperature is very mild, notwithstanding the snow which covers the ground almost entirely. The sun is very hot, casting a golden reflection over the whole of this charming picture, which the birds enhance by their glad song, as if to testify to their joy and love of life.