THE ARCTIC SUMMER.
There is truly a rare charm in the Arctic summer,
especially if watched unfolding from the darkness,
and followed through the growing warmth, until the
snows are loosened from the hills and the fountains
burst forth, and the feeble flower-growths spring into
being, and the birds come back with their merry
music; and then again as it passes away, under
the dark shadow of a sunless sky,—the fountains
sealing up, the hill-sides and valleys taking on again
the white robes of winter and the stillness of the tomb,
the birds in rapid flight with the retreating day, and
the mantle of darkness settling upon the mountains,
and overspreading the plain.
To describe the summer as I have before described the winter, and to attempt fully to picture in detail those features which give it such a striking contrast to the winter as is not seen in any other quarter of the world, would too far prolong this narrative; and I will therefore content myself with selecting from my diary such extracts as will show the progress of the season, and those occupations of myself and associates that bore upon the purposes which we had mainly in view.
June 22d.
It is just six months since I wrote, "The sun has reached to-day its greatest southern declination, and we have passed the Arctic midnight;" and now the sun has reached its greatest northern declination, and we have passed the Arctic noonday. Constant light has succeeded constant darkness, a bright and cheerful world has banished a painful solitude;—
"The winter is past and gone; the flowers appear on the earth;
the time of the singing of birds is come;"
and the long night which the glad day has succeeded
is remembered as a strange dream.
