May 6th. [Sidenote: A COLD SUPPER.] A most miserable day's work brought to a most miserable end. McDonald spilled our smoking-hot supper on the snow; and, as we could not afford a second allowance of fuel (lard and rope-yarns), we were in as great danger of going to bed supperless as Baillie Nicol Jarvie, at the Clachan of Aberfoil, before the red-hot coulter brought the churly Highlanders to reason; but, luckily, McDonald managed, much to our satisfaction, to scrape up the greater part of the hash along with the snow, and we ate it cold. The coffee was, however, of course, irrecoverable, and we are turning in cheerless enough in consequence. The temperature has tumbled down again to 10° below zero, and writing is not pleasant to the fingers when the thermometer behaves in this manner. May 7th. [Sidenote: BROKEN SLEDGES.] Another edition of all the other days. We have made but little progress, to reward us for a most energetic day's labor, and are flat down with two broken sledges. Of one a runner is split, and Jensen declares that he has mended it so often that he can mend it no more; but a few hours' sleep will sharpen his wits, I hope. We are a rather lamentable-looking set of travelers. With too little energy to build a snow-hut, we have drawn the sledges together and are going to sleep on them, in the open air. The night is reasonably warm,--temperature above zero, and sleeping may be managed; but we miss the grateful warmth of the snow-hut. The truth is, that the labors of the day cause us to perspire as if we were in the tropics, and hence our clothing becomes wet through and through; the coat freezes stiff and solid as sheet-iron as soon as we halt, and we experience all over the uncomfortable sensation of "packing" in wet sheets at a water-cure. May 8th. Battling away as before. I felt sure that we would reach the land to-day, but it appears no nearer than when we set out this morning. Sledges, harness, dogs and men are all tumbling to pieces. May 9th. Still battling away; but, this time, through fog and snow, bedeviled all the day in a lifeless atmosphere, thick as the gloom of Hades. May 10th. At the same hopeless work again; and again we go into camp among the hummocks. I dare not hope that we will reach the shore to-morrow, for I have been so often disappointed; but the shore _will_ be reached some time, if there is an ounce of food left or a dog left alive to drag it with. I have settled down into a sort of dogged determination. May 11th. In camp at last, close under the land; and as happy as men can be who have achieved success and await supper.