howled oftener and more furiously than any infant
that had ever been born in Arctic land. His proper name, however, was
Chingatok, though his familiars still ventured occasionally to style him
Skreekinbroot.

Now it must not be supposed that our giant was one of those ridiculous
myths of the nursery, with monstrous heads and savage hearts, who live
on human flesh, and finally receive their deserts at the hands of famous
giant-killing Jacks. No! Chingatok was a real man of moderate size--
not more than seven feet two in his sealskin boots--with a lithe,
handsome figure, immense chest and shoulders, a gentle disposition, and
a fine, though flattish countenance, which was sometimes grave with
thought, at other times rippling with fun.

We mention the howling characteristic of his babyhood because it was, in
early life, the only indication of the grand spirit that dwelt within
him--the solitary evidence of the tremendous energy with which he was
endowed. At first he was no bigger than an ordinary infant. He was,
perhaps, a little fatter, but _not_ larger, and there was not an oily
man or woman of the tribe to which he belonged who would have noticed
anything peculiar about him if he had only kept moderately quiet; but
this he would not or could not do. His mouth was his safety-valve. His
spirit seemed to have been born big at once. It was far too large for
his infant body, and could only find relief from the little plump
dwelling in which it was at first enshrined by rushing out at the mouth.
The shrieks of pigs were trifles to the yelling of that Eskimo child's
impatience. The caterwauling of cats was as nothing to the growls of
his disgust. The angry voice of the Polar bear was a mere chirp
compared with the furious howling of his disappointment, and the barking
of a mad walrus was music to the roaring of his wrath.

Every one, except his mother, wished him dead and buried in the centre
of an iceberg or at the bottom of the Polar Sea. His mother--squat,
solid, pleasant-faced, and mild--alone put up with his ways with that
long-suffering endurance which is characteristic of mothers. Nothing
could disturb the serenity of Toolooha. When the young giant, (that was
to be), roared, she fondled him; if that was ineffectual, she gave him a
walrus tusk or a seal's flipper to play with; if that did not suffice,
she handed him a lump of blubber to suck; if that failed, as was
sometimes the case, she gambolled with him