218 WHALING AND BEAR-HUNTING 



had many small things to occupy ourselves with, but every 

 five minutes some of us were out at the cabin door to look 

 at the view. Only a plain of snow fading in violet ridges 

 into the mist, with very few features, but the delicacy of 

 the colour you hardly notice at first, day after day grows 

 on you, and if you try to paint it, it grows more quickly, 

 and you realise the difficulty of trying to reproduce Nature's 

 highest quiet notes. It was our watch till three that is, 

 Archie's and mine but the others stayed up, though there 

 was little chance of seeing a bear. So inside the cabin we 

 piled coal on to the small stove and blew smokes, and it was 

 warm, distinctly cosy, and the guitar thrummed, and several 

 of us hummed and wrote and smoked, and then went out 

 into the cold, frosty air and looked at the colour, the fantasy 

 of ice form and colour and the icicles hanging from scanty 

 rigging, and came back to the cabin and vainly tried to find 

 words to express appreciation of the beauty of the white 

 scenery. 



So we stayed up till the end of our watch, then Archie and 

 I turned in, very sleepy, and our Spanish friends stood their 

 watch as well, till nine. They never seem to turn a hair 

 for want of sleep. 



