The air also grew warmer, and when the dividing ridge was crossed and a thick forest entered, the snows and dreadful region of Deadmen's Ice already seemed leagues and leagues away.
Probably a warm ocean current played on one side of the peninsula, while a cold one swept the other, but for scientific aspects of the question I cared little in my joy at being anew in a soft climate, amongst beautiful flowers and vivid life again.

Mile after mile slipped quickly by as I strode along, whistling "Yankee Doodle" to myself and revelling in the change.

At one place I met a rough-looking Martian woodcutter, who wanted to fight until he found I also wanted to, when he turned very civil and as talkative as a solitary liver often is when his tongue gets started.

He particularly desired to know where I came from, and, as in the case with so many other of his countrymen, took it for granted, and with very little surprise, that I was either a spirit or an inhabitant of another world.

With this idea in his mind he gave me a curious piece of information, which, unfortunately, I was never able to follow up.
"I don't think you can be a spirit," he said, critically eyeing my clothes, which were now getting ragged and dirty beyond description.
"They are finer-looking things than you, and I doubt if their toes come through their shoes like yours do.