When all is quiet we rise to the surface, to find it quiet there, too. The sun shining brightly on an iceberg, whose edge, sending up a few whale spouts, resolves it into a fountainous white island. I muse aloud! “Does the under war cause the upper war, or _vice versa_? What is war? Ocean’s elements and life as restless as man. Plant-life and rocks, also, struggle and upheave. Why is war? Resulting only to change. God’s evolution but a program of variety.” I study it thus, in inspiration, hoping it leads to fore-destined improvement. I am hearing the word Arbitration. “Oh, yes, papa; when arbitration stops men’s wars, will the elements follow, and what then?” [Illustration: Decoration] ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “Those starry choirs that watch around the pole.” —_Casimir_. The first iceberg is but the precursor of many that block our way. Then block the land to perpetual imprisonment. Giving us first taste of this specialty of our trip. As we stop a few days in the last place of civilization. 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.