It grew duskier, and the rose-tint of the sun faded into purple gloom as pale night drew near--four hours of rest that was neither darkness nor day.

With a pillow of sedge and grass under his head he slept.
The song and cry of bird-life wakened him, and at dawn he bathed in the pool, with dozens of fluffy, new-born ducks dodging away from him among the grasses and reeds.

That day, and the next, and the day after that he traveled steadily into the heart of the tundra country, swiftly and almost without rest.

It seemed to him, at last, that he must be in that country where all the bird-life of the world was born, for wherever there was water, in the pools and little streams and the hollows between the ridges, the voice of it in the morning was a babel of sound.

Out of the sweet breast of the earth he could feel the irresistible pulse of motherhood filling him with its strength and its courage, and whispering to him its everlasting message that because of the glory and need and faith of life had God created this land of twenty-hour day and four-hour twilight.