heating and cooking, and makes the igloo so warm that the
inhabitants wear little clothing when indoors. They sleep with their
heads toward the lamp, so the woman may reach out and tend it.

On the other side of the house food is generally stored. When two
families occupy one igloo, there may be a second lamp on the other side;
and in that case the food must be stored under the bed. The temperature
of these houses varies from eighty or ninety degrees Fahrenheit, on the
bed platform and near the roof, to something below freezing point at the
floor level. There is a little air-hole in the center of the roof, but
in the happy home of an Eskimo family, in winter, the atmosphere could
almost be handled with a shovel.

Often, in winter traveling, I have been obliged to sleep in one of these
hospitable igloos. On such occasions I have made the best of things, as
a man would if compelled to sleep in a tenth-rate railroad hotel or a
slum lodging-house, but I have tried to forget the experience as soon as
possible. It is not well for an arctic explorer to be too fastidious. A
night in one of these igloos, with the family at home, is an offense to
every civilized sense, especially that of smell; but there are times
when a man, after a long sledge journey in the terrible cold and wind,
hungry and footsore, will welcome the dim light shining through the
translucent window of an igloo as one welcomes the light of home. It
means warmth and comfort, supper, and blessed sleep.

There is no blinking the fact that my Eskimo friends are very dirty.
When I have them on the ship with me they make heroic efforts to wash
themselves occasionally; but in their own homes they practically never
do, and in winter they have no water except from melted snow. On rare
occasions, when the dirt gets too thick for comfort, they may remove the
outer layer with a little oil. I shall never forget the amazement with
which they made acquaintance with the white man's use of the
tooth-brush.

With the coming of the summer, the stone and earth houses become damp,
dark holes, and the roofs are taken off to dry and ventilate the
interior. The family then moves outside and sets up the tupik, or skin
tent, which is their home from about the first of June till some time in
September. The tupik is made of sealskins, with the hair on the inside.
Ten or twelve skins, sewed together in one large piece, make a tent. It
is stretched on poles, high in front and sloping t