X9ii] IMPRESSIONS ON THE MARCH 153 
Impressions 
The seductive folds of the slecping-bag. 
The hiss of the primus and the fragrant steam of the 
cooker issuing from the tent ventilator. 
The small green tent and the great white road. 
The whine of a dog and the neigh of our steeds. 
The driving cloud of powdered snow. 
The crunch of footsteps which break the surface crust. 
The wind-blown furrows. 
The blue arch beneath the smoky cloud. 
The crisp ring of the ponies' hoofs and the swish of the 
following sledge. 
The droning conversation of the march as driver 
encourages or chides his horse. 
The patter of dog pads. 
The gentle flutter of our canvas shelter. 
Its deep booming sound under the full force of a 
blizzard. 
The drift snow like finest flour penetrating every hole 
and corner — flickering up beneath one's head covering, 
pricking sharply as a sand blast. 
The sun with blurred image peeping shyly through the 
wreathing drift giving pale shadowless light. 
The eternal silence of the great white desert. Cloudy 
columns of snow drift advancing from the south, pale 
yellow wraiths, heralding the coming storm, blotting out 
one by one the sharp-cut lines of the land. 
The blizzard, Nature's protest — the crevasse, Nature's 
pitfall — that grim trap for the unwary — no hunter could 
conceal his snare so perfectly — the light rippled snow 
