re visible all over the distant country, while cries from
afar reach the ear, as well as those from below. But from the mast-head
you hear only the few subdued sounds under your feet--all beyond is
silence; you behold only the small oval-shaped platform that is your
world--beyond lies the calm, desolate ocean. On deck you cannot realise
this feeling, for there sails and yards tower above you, and masts, and
boats, and cordage, intercept your view; but from above you _take in_
the intense minuteness of your home at a single glance--you stand aside,
as it were, and, in some measure, comprehend the insignificance of the
_thing_ to which you have committed your life.

The scene witnessed by our friends at the mast-head of the _Dolphin_ on
this occasion was surpassingly beautiful. Far as the eye could stretch,
the sea was covered with islands and fields of ice of every conceivable
shape. Some rose in little peaks and pinnacles, some floated in the
form of arches and domes, some were broken and rugged, like the ruins of
old border strongholds, while others were flat and level, like fields of
white marble; and so calm was it that the ocean in which they floated
seemed like a groundwork of polished steel, in which the sun shone with
dazzling brilliancy. The tops of the icy islets were pure white, and
the sides of the higher ones of a delicate blue colour, which gave to
the scene a transparent lightness that rendered it pre-eminently
fairy-like.

"It far surpasses anything I ever conceived," ejaculated Singleton after
a long silence. "No wonder that authors speak of scenes being
indescribable. Does it not seem like a dream, Fred?"

"Tom," said Fred earnestly, "I've been trying to fancy myself in another
world, and I have almost succeeded. When I look long and intensely at
the ice, I get almost to believe that these are streets, and palaces,
and cathedrals. I never felt so strong a desire to have wings, that I
might fly from one island to another, and go floating in and out, and
round about, those blue caves and sparkling pinnacles."

"It's a curious fancy, Fred, but not unnatural."

"Tom," said Fred, after another long silence, "has not the thought
occurred to you that God made it all?"

"Some such thought did cross my mind, Fred, for a moment, but it soon
passed away. Is it not _very_ strange that the idea of the Creator is
so seldom, and so slightly, connected with his works in our minds?"

Again there was a l