"Tuesday, June 11th. A monotonous life this on the whole, as monotonous as one can well imagine it--to turn out day after day, week after week, month after month, to the same toil, over ice which is sometimes a little better, sometimes a little worse (it now seems to be steadily getting worse), always hoping to see an end to it, but always hoping in vain--ever the same monotonous range of vision over ice, and again ice. No sign of land in any direction and no open water, and now we should be in the same latitude as Cape Fligely, or at most a couple of minutes farther north. We do not know where we are, and we do not know when this will end. Meanwhile our provisions are dwindling day by day, and the number of our dogs is growing seriously less. Shall we reach land while we yet have food, or shall we, when all is said, ever reach it? It will soon be impossible to make any way against this ice and snow. The latter is only slush; the dogs sink through at every step, and we ourselves splash through it up above our knees when we have to help the dogs or take a turn at the heavy sledges, which happens frequently. It is hard to go on hoping in such circumstances, but still we do so; though sometimes, perhaps, our hearts fail us when we see the ice lying before us like an impenetrable maze of ridges, lanes, brash, and huge blocks thrown together pell-mell, and one might imagine one's self looking at suddenly congealed breakers. There are moments when it seems impossible that any creature not possessed of wings can get farther, and one longingly follows the flight of a passing gull, and thinks how far away one would soon be could one borrow its wings. But then, in spite of everything, one finds a way, and hope springs eternal. Let the sun peep out a moment from the bank of clouds, and the ice-plains glitter in all their whiteness; let the sunbeams play on the water, and life seems beautiful in spite of all, and worthy a struggle. "It is wonderful how little it takes to give one fresh courage. Yesterday I found dead in a lane a little polar cod (Gadus polaris), and my eyes, I am sure, must have shone with pleasure when I saw it. It was real treasure-trove. Where there is fish in the water one can hardly starve, and before I crept into the tent this morning I set a line in the lane beside us. But what a number of these little fish it would require to feed one; many more in one day than one could catch in a week, or perhaps in a month! Yet one is hopeful, and lies counting the chances of there being larger fish in the water here, and of being able to fish to one's heart's content.