It had its beginning, perhaps, in snow deposited in some far-off Greenland valley.

Other snows had come upon it, and still other snows, until a tremendous weight of snow pressed it, as it froze, into a glass-like hardness.
And all the while the great mass was moving, inch by inch, and slowly, down the long valley toward the sea.

Perhaps a century passed, perhaps two or three, or even more, centuries, before this particular portion of the glacier, as these masses of ice between the hills are called, reached the sea and was at last thrust out beyond the land.
And then, one day, with a report like the report of a cannon, it separated from the mother glacier, slid out into the current, and began its southward voyage.

Months had passed since then--perhaps a year, or even two or three years--and all the time it had been wasting away in the water until Bobby and Jimmy found it this July day, off Itigailit Island.
But neither Bobby as he chopped at the ice, nor Jimmy as he sat in the boat, gave that a thought, if indeed they knew it.

They were intent only upon gathering enough of the aged ice to preserve the meat of a polar bear.
Neither did they realize that with each stroke of the ax Bobby was disturbing the center of gravitation of the iceberg, already delicately balanced in the water, until presently Jimmy noticed that the side next him was rising--very slowly and deliberately at first.
"Bobby! Look out--the berg's turning!" he shouted in a terrified voice.
Up and up went the side of the iceberg.