A few small birds made their appearance from the southward, and
these were hailed as harbingers of the coming summer.
One day O'Riley sat on the taffrail, basking in the warm sun, and
drinking in health and gladness from its beams. He had been ill, and was
now convalescent. Buzzby stood beside him.
"I've bin thinkin'," said Buzzby, "that we don't half know the blessin's
that are given to us in this here world till we've had 'em taken away.
Look, now, how we're enjoyin' the sun an' the heat, just as if it wos so
much gold!"
"Goold!" echoed O'Riley, in a tone of contempt; "faix I niver thought so
little o' goold before, let me tell ye. Goold can buy many a thing, it
can, but it can't buy sunshine. Hallo! what's this?"
O'Riley accompanied the question with a sudden snatch of his hand.
"Look here, Buzzby! Have a care, now! jist watch the openin' o' my
fist."
"Wot is it?" inquired Buzzby, approaching, and looking earnestly at his
comrade's clinched hand with some curiosity.
"There he comes! Now, then, not so fast, ye spalpeen!"
As he spoke, a small fly, which had been captured, crept out from
between his fingers, and sought to escape. It was the first that had
visited these frozen regions for many, many months, and the whole crew
were summoned on deck to meet it as if it were an old and valued friend.
"Let it go, poor thing!" cried half-a-dozen of the men, gazing at the
little prisoner with a degree of interest that cannot be thoroughly
understood by those who have not passed through experiences similar to
those of our Arctic voyagers.
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