Butterface returned the
grasp with interest, and soon quite an interesting wrestling match
began, the only witness of which sat on a neighbouring hummock in the
form of a melancholy Arctic fox.

"Hi! hold on, Massa Leo! Don't kill me altogidder," shouted Butterface,
as he fell beneath his adversary. "You's a'most right now."

"Almost right! what do you mean?"

"I mean dat you's bin a'most froze to deaf, but I's melted you down to
life agin."

The truth at last began to dawn on the young hunter. After a brief
explanation, he and the negro walked home together in perfect harmony.

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE LAST.

In course of time the long and dreary winter passed away, and signs of
the coming spring began to manifest themselves to the dwellers in the
Polar lands.

Chief and most musical among these signs were the almost forgotten
sounds of dropping water, and tinkling rills. One day in April the
thermometer suddenly rose to eighteen above the freezing-point of
Fahrenheit. Captain Vane came from the observatory, his face blazing
with excitement and oily with heat, to announce the fact.

"That accounts for it feeling so like summer," said Benjy.

"Summer, boy, it's like India," returned the Captain, puffing and
fanning himself with his cap. "We'll begin this very day to make
arrangements for returning home."

It was on the evening of that day that they heard the first droppings of
the melting snow. Long before that, however, the sun had come back to
gladden the Polar regions, and break up the reign of ancient night. His
departure in autumn had been so gradual, that it was difficult to say
when night began to overcome the day. So, in like manner, his return
was gradual. It was not until Captain Vane observed stars of the sixth
magnitude shining out at noon in November, that he had admitted the
total absence of day; and when spring returned, it was not until he
could read the smallest print at midnight in June that he admitted there
was "no night there."

But neither the continual day of summer, nor the perpetual night of
winter, made so deep an impression on our explorers as the gushing
advent of spring. That season did not come gradually back like the
light, but rushed upon them suddenly with a warm embrace, like an
enthusiastic friend after a long absence. It plunged, as it were, upon
the region, and overwhelmed it. Gushing waters thrilled the ears with
the sweetness of an old familiar son