240 FROM EDINBURGH TO THE ANTARCTIC 
with a slate-grey touch in the centre of each— quills would 
be a better name than feathers, as they resemble a scale 
frayed at the edges rather than feathers. They are very 
stiff, short, and hard, and seem to be scarcely fitting pro- 
tection from the cold. I expected to find a great quantity 
of protective oil beneath the skin, but found there was 
little more than on our guillemots and divers at home. 
. . . Days such as this are few in a lifetime, so full of 
interest has it been, and so fatiguing. Since early morn- 
ing, rather since yesterday, for there was no night and no 
morning, we have been constantly marvelling at most as- 
tonishing and beautiful spectacles. We have been bathed 
in red blood, and for hours and hours we have rowed in the 
boats and plunged over miles of soft snow dragging seal- 
skins, and I have been drawing hard in the times between 
the boat excursions ; but the air is exhilarating, and we 
feel equal to almost any amount of work. Sun and snow- 
showers alternate — fine hard snow it is, that makes our 
faces burn as if before a fire. It is very cold sketching, 
and incidents and effects follow each other so rapidly that 
there is time to make little more than mental notes. 
Christmas Eve. 
Those who have felt the peace of a summer night in 
Norway or Iceland, where the day sleeps with wide-open 
eyes, can fancy the quiet beauty of such a night among 
the white floes of the Antarctic. 
To-day has passed, glistering in silky white, decked with 
sparkling jewels of blue and green, and we thought surely 
