The supply of liquor had been in the main destroyed, but on one or two ships this had been overlooked in the haste of leaving, and after a time it was discovered. It was not very much among three thousand Eskimos, but a little liquor goes a long way among these hardy men of the north, and once this began to get in its work among them, no man can describe the extraordinary scenes which ensued. Tribal animosity which had been dulled by plenty and a common object grew keen again, and the men of one village fought with those of another until sometimes a whole tribe was wiped out. As the wild orgy increased and the supply of liquor gave out, they broke into the ships’ medicine chests, and tinctures and solutions of deadly drugs were used with fatal effect. The horror lasted until the spring sun was well above the southern horizon, and scarcely half the people of the new city were left to see him rise. These were half-clad, and emaciated by the terrible deeds and mishaps of the winter. The dogs, neglected and unfed, had gone “molokully”—crazy—with the cold and hunger, and were roaming the waste of snow, or were mercifully dead. The remnant of the people had no means and were in no condition to travel, yet travel they must. The daze of their orgy was over, and the place was become a place of horrors to them. Dead lay in every igloo, and in Eskimo land an igloo in which some one has died is henceforth a place of evil, and no man must take shelter there. There were no doubt stores and material enough left in and about the vessels that were unburned to support the people remaining in comfort for a long time to come, and could they have had a chance to recuperate, they still might have made a village unique in size and prosperity, but they would have none of it. Silently and in terror the remnant of the tribes scattered and hastened to their former homes, but only a part ever reached them. Sick and emaciated, their dogs dead or scattered, the journey was one of hardship long to be remembered, and the miles were marked with the bones of those that fell by the way. This is the story of “Nunaria,” a place of ghosts and of the dead. To this day no Eskimo will willingly enter its precincts. The ice and gales of winter, the frosts and thaws of spring, the deluges of rain and the grass of summer, work hard to obliterate it, yet still it may be found, and its ruin tells the tale of one brief winter of too much plenty, and the evil effect of a sudden plethora of the good things of civilization and city life on the Innuit. With him, as with the rest of us, self-control is not easily learned where abstemiousness is continually forced. It takes a far greater man to stand sudden great prosperity than it does to survive lean years and narrow opportunities. Harluk expressed this in one brief Eskimo phrase. “Amalucktu amalucktu, peluk,” he said. “Too much plenty is no good.”