A primeval forest of saplings.
"Ditchen Nechila," said the guide.
"Land of Sticks Little," translated Rea.
An occasional reindeer was seen and numerous foxes and hares trotted off into the woods, evincing more curiosity than fear.

All were silver white, even the reindeer, at a distance, taking the hue of the north.
Once a beautiful creature, unblemished as the snow it trod, ran up a ridge and stood watching the hunters.

It resembled a monster dog, only it was inexpressibly more wild looking.
"Ho! Ho! there you are!" cried Rea, reaching for his Winchester.

"Polar wolf! Them's the white devils we'll have hell with." As if the wolf understood, he lifted his white, sharp head and uttered a bark or howl that was like nothing so much as a haunting, unearthly mourn.

The animal then merged into the white, as if he were really a spirit of the world whence his cry seemed to come.
In this ancient forest of youthful appearing trees, the hunters cut firewood to the full carrying capacity of the sleds.