Well, as I was trying to say, there was nothing much for the cub to do in the snowhouse but nurse, sleep, and grow.

To these three important but not exciting affairs he devoted himself entirely.

Neither to him nor to his big white mother did it matter in the least whether the long Arctic gales roared over their unseen roof, or the unimaginable Arctic cold groped for them with noiseless fingers.

Neither foe could reach them in their warm refuge.

Nothing at all, indeed, could find them, except, once in a while, when the Northern Lights were dancing with unusual brilliance across the sky, a dim, pallid glow, which would filter down through the snow and allow the cub's eyes (if they happened to be open at the time) to make out something of his mother's gigantic white form.
"For the youngster of so huge a mother, the snowhouse baby was quite absurdly small.