New-Year’s day came, and preparations were made to celebrate the day with the usual festivities.  But the recent death had affected the crew too deeply to allow them to indulge in the unrestrained hilarity of that season.  Prayers were read in the morning, and both Captain Guy and Captain Ellice addressed the men feelingly in allusion to their late shipmate’s death and their own present position.  A good dinner was also prepared, and several luxuries served out, among which were the materials for the construction of a large plum-pudding.  But no grog was allowed, and they needed it not.  As the afternoon advanced, stories were told, and even songs were sung; but these were of a quiet kind, and the men seemed, from an innate feeling of propriety, to suit them to the occasion.  Old friends were recalled, and old familiar scenes described.  The hearths of home were spoken of with a depth of feeling that showed how intense was the longing to be seated round them again, and future prospects were canvassed with keen interest and with hopeful voices.  New-Year’s day came and went, and when it was gone the men of the Dolphin did not say, “what a jolly day it was.”  They said little or nothing, but long after they thought of it as a bright spot in their dreary winter in the Bay of Mercy—­as a day in which they had enjoyed earnest, glad, and sober communings of heart.

CHAPTER XXI.

First gleam of light—­Trip to welcome the sun—­Bears and strange discoveries—­O’Riley is reckless—­First view of the sun.

The wisest of men has told us that “it is a pleasant thing for the eyes to behold the sun,” but only those who spend a winter in the Arctic Regions can fully appreciate the import of that inspired saying.

It is absolutely essential to existence that the bright beams of the great luminary should fall on animal as well as plant.  Most of the poor dogs died for want of this blessed light, and had it been much longer withheld, doubtless our navigators would have sunk also.

About the 20th of January a faint gleam of light on the horizon told of the coming day.  It was hailed with rapture, and long before the bright sun himself appeared on the southern horizon the most of the men made daily excursions to the neighbouring hilltops to catch sight of as much as possible of his faint rays.  Day by day those rays expanded, and at last a sort of dawn enlightened a distant portion of their earth, which, faint though it was at first, had much the appearance in their eyes of a bright day.  But time wore on, and real day appeared.  The red sun rose in all its glory, showed a rim of its glowing disk above the frozen sea, and then sank, leaving a long gladsome smile of twilight behind.  This great event happened on the 19th of February, and would have occurred sooner, but for the high cliffs to the southward which intervened between the ship and the horizon.