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ADRIFT ON AN ICE-PAN
lost. It was soon painfully impressed upon me that I could not much enjoy the ride, for I had to be hauled like a log up the hills, my feet being frost-burnt so that I could not walk. Had I guessed this before going into the house, I might have avoided much trouble.
It is time to bring this egotistic narrative to an end. “Jack” lies curled up by my feet while I write this short account. “Brin” is once again leading and lording it over his fellows. “Doc” and the other survivors are not forgotten, now that we have again returned to the less romantic episodes of a mission hospital life. There stands in our hallway a bronze tablet to the memory of three noble dogs, Moody, Watch, and Spy, whose lives were given for mine on the ice.
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