day, eighty-eight of our days in length from one sun-rise to the next. But its day and night are not apportioned alike. The eastern strip has its daylight briefer than its starlight hours; the western has them longer. Nor are different portions of the strips similarly circumstanced in their sunward regard. Only the edge next perpetual day has anything approaching an equal distribution of sunlight and shade. The farther one just peeps at the Sun for a moment every eighty-eight days, and then sinks back again into obscurity.
The transition from day to night is equally instantaneous and profound. For little or no twilight here prolongs the light; since the air, if there be any at all, is too thin to bend it to service round the edge to illuminate the night. When the libratory Sun sets, darkness like a mantle falls swiftly over the face of the ground. No evidence of atmosphere has ever been perceived, and theory informs that it should be nearly, if not wholly, absent.
In consequence of the rigid uprightness of the planet's axis, seasons do not exist. Their nearest simulacrum comes from the seeming dilatation of the Sun during half the year, and its apparent contraction during the other half. It expands so much between its January and its July as to receive more heat in the ratio of nine to four. A seasonless, dayless, and almost
