The dog lives for the day, the hour, even the moment.

The dog is almost human in its demand for living interest, yet fatally less than human in its inability to foresee.

But we have been to the Pole and we shall die like gentlemen. I regret only for the women we leave behind.

Each man in his way is a treasure.

I can imagine few things more trying to the patience than the long wasted days of waiting.

To wait idly is the worst of conditions.

As one looks across the barren stretches of the pack, it is sometimes difficult to realise what teeming life exists immediately beneath its surface.