Night, it is said, is the time for reflection and I now had ample opportunity for this exercise. Unfortunately for the philosophic calm which might have resulted from thought, Ikik, my lovely northern sweetheart, had other ideas as to the proper disposal of the nocturnal hours. The glances which she levelled at me across the Primus were, to say the least, importunate. Little by little I felt my icy resolution thawing beneath her tropic influence. It was an odd situation. About me the wastes of berg and floe, the mercury skulking in the basement of the thermometer, while in my heart burned an increasing glow that would not be extinguished. Yet I fought on, a St. Anthony of the North. Christmas came, as it will even in this distant clime. The event was marked by a general celebration. As I went about the preparations for the feast I little realized how tragically the date was to stand out in my memory. Morning dawned dark and clear. We used the Pole for our tree, having fashioned branches of oars, pogo-sticks and other suitable materials. During what would have been the fore-noon we groped our way to the edge of the ice bowl, in groups of two or three. I was in one of the groups of two. The other half was Ikik. Sitting in silence on the edge of the earth crater, I mused sadly. How wonderful, I thought, if the great safety valve would but open and bear my love and me away in its flaming arms. But the conflagration was to be of a more human and dangerous character. "See," whispered the maiden. "I have brought my present for you." How like her it was, to steal away from the others for this sacred presentation. I peered at the object in her hand. It was a small sack of translucent fish membrane filled with a viscous liquid. ODE TO THE AURORA No more poignant moment in the history of American literature has ever been recorded by the camera than that shown with this text which portrays Whinney, the poet-scientist, in the very act of creating his immortal poem "Ode to Aurora," which John Farrar, the veteran critic, pronounces "the best classic ode ever written north of the arctic circle." As a poet Whinney resembles Milton, in that he is blind. Though this was only a temporary affliction,--snow-blindness,--its immediate effects were heartrendingly pathetic. Not only did the unfortunate traveller miss seeing the Pole and the polar fireworks but he was also forced to master the most difficult of all literary exercises, that of operating a typewriter with mittens on. The ancient pastime of catching a flea while wearing boxing-gloves is child's-play compared with this achievement. Hour after hour, day after day, the persistent poet practised his sightless-touch system. "What does it look like?" he would ask, submitting a page to Sausalito who had good-naturedly assumed the duties of nursing-secretary. "Nothing," would be the invariable reply.