They had, so to speak, adopted us as their children. Not
merely had they divided their last morsel of food, but had given to us
and their children, and had gone without themselves. It was merely some
walrus hide that had been saved to make soles for their shoes, but
nevertheless it was literally their last mouthful, and when that was
gone we all went hungry until the long-continued storm abated and an
opportunity was afforded to kill a walrus, which appeased our hunger
for the time being. Is it unnatural that we should absolutely love
these kind friends, or was it a thing to be ashamed of that theirs were
not the only tears that fell at parting? Of all savages--I was going to
say of all people--commend me to these simple-hearted Esquimaux, with
all their dirt and gluttony, for genuine, self-sacrificing hospitality.
As we were being rowed out to the ship by an Inuit crew at ten o'clock
on the night of the 1st of August, our faces were turned toward the
land, where the sky was still brilliant with the light of a gorgeous
sunset. Lieutenant Schwatka sat beside me in the bow of the boat, and
neither of us had spoken since we left the shore, until he turned to me
and said, "I was not prepared for this."
"Prepared for what?" said I.
"I was not prepared to feel the pain of parting from these people and
this country as I feel it now.
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