purple. The pools of water between the floes caught the reflection, the
sea was perfectly still and every berg and ice-floe caught something of
the delicate colour. Wilson, of course, was up and about till long after
midnight sketching and painting. The Antarctic pack ice lends itself to
water-colour work far better than to oils.

When conning the ship from up in the crow's-nest one has a glorious view
of this great changing ice-field. Moving through lanes of clear blue
water, cannoning into this floe and splitting it with iron-bound stem,
overriding that and gnawing off a twenty ton lump, gliding south, east,
west, through leads of open water, then charging an innocent-looking
piece which brings the ship up all-standing, astern and ahead again,
screwing and working the wonderful wooden ship steadily southward until
perhaps two huge floes gradually narrow the lane and hold the little lady
fast in their frozen grip.

This is the time to wait and have a look round: on one side floes the
size of a football field, all jammed together, with their torn up edges
showing their limits and where the pressure is taken. Then three or four
bergs, carved from the distant Barrier, imprisoned a mile or so away,
with the evening sun's soft rays casting beautiful shadows about them and
kissing their glistening cliff faces.

Glancing down from the crow's-nest the ship throws deep shadows over the
ice and, while the sun is just below the southern horizon, the still
pools of water show delicate blues and greens that no artist can ever do
justice to. It is a scene from fairyland.

I loved this part of the voyage, for I was in my element. At odd times
during the night, if one can call it night, the crow's-nest would have