lunch--we had risen over 250 feet, according to aneroid; it seemed funny
enough to find the barometer standing at 21 inches instead of 30.

Lunch camp, what a change. The primus stove fiercely roaring, the men
light up their pipes and talk Christmas--dear, cheery souls, how proud
Scott must have been of them; no reference to the discomforts of the
forenoon march, just brightness and the nicest thoughts for one another,
and for "those," as poor Wilson unconsciously describes them, by humming:
"Keep our loved ones, now far absent, 'neath Thy care." After a mug of
warming tea and two biscuits we strike camp, and are soon slogging on.
But the crevasses and icefalls have been overcome, the travelling is
better, and with nothing but the hard, white horizon before us, thoughts
wander away to the homeland--sweet little houses with well-kept gardens,
glowing fires on bright hearths, clean, snowy tablecloths and polished
silver, and then the dimpled, smiling faces of those we are winning our
spurs for. Next Christmas may we hope for it? Yes, it must be.

But with the exception of Lashly and Crean that daydream never came true,
for alas, those whose dearest lived for that Christmas _never_ came home,
and the one other spared lost his wife, besides his five companions.

The two teams struggled on until after 8 p.m., when at last Scott
signalled to camp. How tired we were--almost cross. But no sooner were
the tents up than eyes looked out gladly from our dirty, bearded faces.
Once again the cooker boiled, and for that night we had a really good
square meal--more than enough of everything--pemmican with pieces of pony
meat in it, a chocolate biscuit, "ragout" raisins, caramels, ginger,
cocoa, butter, and a double ration of biscuits. How we watched Bowers
cook that extra thick pemmican. Had he put too much pepper in? Would he
upset it? How many pieces of pony meat would we get each? But the careful