I902] THE DIARIST'S WOES 353 



sandy heaps beyond ; the tent, which has been flapping idly, 

 shivers violently as the blast sweeps by ; a last look at the 

 thermometer shows that the temperature has fallen to —48° ; 

 we wonder how much lower it is going, and make for the tent 

 door. 



It doesn't do to dive straight in, for we may land in the 

 centre of someone else's anatomy, so we shout, ' All right for 

 coming in ? ' There is a scuffling, then ' Right, oh ! ' and we 

 dive with a blind lurch towards our own corner ; the last- 

 comer gathers up the loose folds of the door and ties them up 

 tightly; then we all sit round on the sleeping-bag and com- 

 plete our costume for the night. It is breathless work this, 

 dealing with hard frozen garments in such a cramped space. 

 Conversation is kept up in gasps, and now and again some 

 struggling figure has to pause for a rest ; but at length all are 

 ready, and, sweeping away the loose snow as far as possible, 

 we lift the flap of the sleeping-bag and step inside. 



But the day's work is not yet over : this is the time for 

 diaries, meteorological records, casual repairs, and pipes. The 

 last-named, being the only attractive part of this programme, 

 is the first to be considered, and each smoker's hand dives 

 into the inner recesses of the pocket in which pipe, matches, 

 and his meagre allowance of tobacco are cherished. Ex- 

 perience soon teaches that a pipe must be kept in a very warm 

 place, otherwise the stem will be found choked with ice, with 

 which nothing but a stiff bit of wire will cope. 



A diary is a great nuisance when the nights are dark : the 

 writer is obliged to secure the flickering lantern close beside 

 his book, and when the tent is being shaken by the wind the 

 fitful motion of the light can be imagined. As he pores over 

 his task his breath forms a film of ice over the paper, on which 

 the pencil frequently skids, and sometimes after writing a few 

 lines he will turn the page to the light and find half of it 

 illegible, so that he has to go painfully over each word afresh. 

 Now and again his bare fingers will refuse duty, and he must 

 wait awhile until they are nursed back to life. This sort of 

 thing does not help one's ideas to flow, and altogether the 



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