Every one knows that, in consequence of the axis of the earth not being perpendicular to the plane of its orbit round the sun, the poles are alternately directed more or less towards that great luminary during one part of the year, and away from it during another part.  So that far north the days during the one season grow longer and longer until at last there is one long day of many weeks’ duration, in which the sun does not set at all; and during the other season there is one long night, in which the sun is never seen.  It was approaching the height of the summer season when the Dolphin entered the Arctic Regions, and, although the sun descended below the horizon for a short time each night, there was scarcely any diminution of the light at all, and, as far as one’s sensations were concerned, there was but one long continuous day, which grew brighter and brighter at midnight as they advanced.

“How thoroughly splendid this is!” remarked Tom Singleton to Fred one night, as they sat in their favourite outlook, the main-top, gazing down on the glassy sea, which was covered with snowy icebergs and floes, and bathed in the rays of the sun; “and how wonderful to think that the sun will only set for an hour or so, and then get up as splendid as ever!”

The evening was still as death.  Not a sound broke upon the ear save the gentle cries of a few sea-birds that dipped ever and anon into the sea, as if to kiss it gently while asleep, and then circled slowly into the bright sky again.  The sails of the ship, too, flapped very gently, and a spar creaked plaintively, as the vessel rose and fell on the gentle undulations that seemed to be the breathing of the ocean.  But such sounds did not disturb the universal stillness of the hour; neither did the gambols of yonder group of seals and walruses that were at play round some fantastic blocks of ice; nor did the soft murmur of the swell that broke in surf at the foot of yonder iceberg, whose blue sides were seamed with a thousand watercourses, and whose jagged pinnacles rose up like needles of steel into the clear atmosphere.

There were many bergs in sight, of various shapes and sizes, at some distance from the ship, which caused much anxiety to the captain, although they were only a source of admiration to our young friends in the main-top.

“Tom,” said Fred, breaking a long silence, “it may seem a strange idea to you, but, do you know, I cannot help fancying that heaven must be something like this.”

“I’m not sure that that’s such a strange idea, Fred, for it has two of the characteristics of heaven in it—­peace and rest.”

“True; that didn’t strike me.  Do you know, I wish that it were always calm like this, and that we had no wind at all.”

Tom smiled.  “Your voyage would be a long one if that were to happen.  I daresay the Esquimaux would join with you in the wish, however, for their kayaks and oomiaks are better adapted for a calm than a stormy sea.”