sit 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.

"Ah! then," said he to Dumps with a wheedling air and expression of
intense affection that would have taken by storm the heart of any
civilized dog, "_won't_ ye come now an' lay in yer own kennel? Sure it's
a beautiful wan, an' as warm as the heart of an iceberg. Doo come now,
avic, an' I'll show ye the way."

But Dumps's heart was marble; he wouldn't budge. By means of a piece of
walrus, however, he was at length induced to go with the Irishman to the
kennel, and was followed by the entire pack. Here O'Riley endeavoured to
make them comfortable, and prevailed on them to lie down and go to
sleep; but whenever he attempted to leave them, they were up and at his
heels in a moment.

"Och! but ye're too fond o' me intirely, Doo lie down agin, and I'll
sing ye a ditty?"

True to his word, O'Riley sat down by the dog-kennel, and gave vent to a
howl which his "owld grandmother," he said, "used to sing to the pig;"
and whether it was the effects of this lullaby, or of the cold, it is
impossible to say