All the time, in light and dark, the Indians filled the air with dismal chant and doleful incantations to the Great Spirit, and the tum! tum! tum! tum! of tomtoms, a specific feature of their wild prayer for food.
But the white monotony of the rolling land and level lake remained unbroken.

The reindeer did not come.

The days became shorter, dimmer, darker.

The mercury kept on the slide.
Forty degrees below zero did not trouble the Indians.

They stamped till they dropped, and sang till their voices vanished, and beat the tomtoms everlastingly.