It is a lovely sunlit evening at the end of July, when we steam out from one of the pretty little fjords in the South Varanger. The air is clear and balmy, and the sea lies before us transparent as a mirror, dark green in colour. The mountains in the south stand out as though carved on the dark background, while their shapely cones are reflected in the mirror at their foot. Not a patch of snow or ice is seen anywhere. By degrees, the copse-covered hills and birch groves at the bottom of the fjord are lost in the distance, and through its mouth we behold the broad mighty Varanger fjord, the greatest in Northern Norway. To the north, the view is arrested by lofty mountains, enveloped in an azure veil; the sun is still high in the sky, though it is past eight o’clock; and to the west we look down into the Varanger fjord, where giant chains of sombre cones stand out in picturesque contrast to the view before us. To the east, there is but one view—sky and sea. We are on the confines of the great Arctic Ocean. Under these promising auspices, we anticipated a good and quick catch, as the whale has that feeling in common with man, that he loves sunshine and a calm sea. In such weather he comes inshore, gamboling in the sun’s rays, whilst from time to time leisurely disposing of a few bushels of ‘krill’ for supper, before proceeding to sea for the night. (By-the-bye, when travelling for pleasure in Arctic Norway, the period July-August should be chosen. True, one runs the risk of not seeing the midnight sun, which disappears in the latter half of July; but by way of recompense, there is no time of the year when nature in these regions stands forth in such colours as just then.) However, just now the Varanger seems rather out of temper; the weather thickens a little, and it begins to blow. No whale is in sight. A little while ago, there were a few ‘puffs’ down in the eastern horizon; but they are gone now; perhaps the supper has not been dainty or plentiful enough about us; there is neither whale nor bait to be seen. From time to time, a solitary seabird flits rapidly by, towards shore; he has been fetching his supper. Night slowly casts her veil over the ocean. We are soon far enough out; so the engines are ordered ‘slow,’ and everybody turns in who is not on the watch. We (officers and the writer) go aft to the captain’s cabin, where we make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances will permit, in order to snatch a few moments of rest, in which we soon succeed, lulled to sleep by the gentle rippling of the icy arctic waves as they lick the sides of the vessel.