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 bridge gives no hint or sign of
the hidden danger, its position unguessable till man or beast is
floundering, clawing and struggling for foothold on the brink.

The vast silence broken only by the mellow sounds of the marching
column.

_Friday, February_ 3, 8 A.M.--Camp 5. Roused the camp at 10 P.M. and
we started marching at 12.30. At first surface bad, but gradually