It is sad to part with an old friend, especially if he be one of the oldest and best friends we ever had.  When the day of departure arrives, it is of no avail that he tells us kindly he will come back again.  That assurance is indeed a comfort after he is gone, and a sweet star of hope that shines brighter and brighter each day until he comes back; but it is poor consolation to us at the time of parting, when we are squeezing his hand for the last time, and trying to crush back the drops that will overflow.

The crew of the Dolphin had, in the course of that winter, to part with one of their best friends; one whom they regarded with the most devoted attachment; one who was not expected to return again till the following spring, and one, therefore, whom some of them might, perhaps, never see again.

Mivins became quite low-spirited about it, and said “as ’ow ’e’d ’ave a ’eavy ’eart for hever and hever, hamen,” after he was gone.  O’Riley remarked, in reference to his departure, that every man in the ship was about to lose a son!  Yes, indeed he did; he perpetrated that atrocious pun, and wasn’t a bit ashamed of it.  O’Riley had perpetrated many a worse pun than that before; it’s to be hoped for the credit of his country he has perpetrated a few better ones since!

Yes, the period at length arrived when the great source of light and heat was about to withdraw his face from these Arctic navigators for a long, long time, and leave them in unvarying night.  It was a good while, however, before he went away altogether, and for many weeks after winter set in in all its intensity, he paid them a daily visit which grew gradually shorter and shorter, until that sad evening in which he finally bade them farewell.

About the middle of October the dark months overspread the Bay of Mercy, and the reign of perpetual night began.  There was something terribly depressing at first in this uninterrupted gloom, and for some time after the sun ceased to show his disk above the horizon the men of the Dolphin used to come on deck at noon, and look out for the faint streak of light that indicated the presence of the life-giving luminary with all the earnestness and longing of Eastern fire-worshippers.

The dogs, too, became sensibly affected by the continued absence of light, and seemed to draw more sympathetically than ever to their human companions in banishment.  A curious and touching instance of this feeling was exhibited when the pack were sent to sleep on Store Island.  A warm kennel had been erected for them there, partly in order that the ship might be kept more thoroughly clean, and partly that the dogs might act as a guard over the stores, in case bears or wolves should take a fancy to examine them.  But nothing would induce the poor animals to keep away from the ship and remain beyond the sound of human voices.  They deserted their comfortable abode with one consent the first time they were sent to it, preferring to spend the night by the side of the ship upon the bare snow.  Coaxing them was of no use.  O’Riley tried it in vain.