daily. There is nothing to be gained from a long description of
this autumn journey, it was merely a record of patiently trudging and of
carefully watching over the ponies. Generally speaking, the weather was
not in our favour, the sky being frequently overcast, and we experienced
an unpleasant amount of low drift.

February 5 and 6 were blizzard days during which no move could be made,
and it was not until nearly 11 p.m. on the 7th that the hard wind took
off and the snow ceased to drift about us. The blizzards were not serious
but were quite sufficient to try the ponies severely--Blossom, Bluecher,
and a third animal, James Pigg, could in no way keep up with the van,
although their loads were lightened considerably. The bluejackets, Forde
and Keohane, showed extraordinary aptitude in handling the ponies, but in
spite of their efforts their animals were quite done up by February 12,
as also was poor old Blossom. It would have been cruel to continue with
them, they were so wasted, and even their eyes were dull and lustreless.
Accordingly, Scott decided to send Bluecher, James Pigg, and Blossom back
with Forde, Keohane, and myself. A reorganisation was made near the 79th
parallel, and whilst the main party proceeded southward, Forde, Keohane,
and I took our feeble ponies northward with the intention of getting them
home to Hut Point before the temperature fell, until the cold would be
too great for them to stand. It was annoying for me to be sent back,
still there was plenty of survey work to be done between the
turning-point and Safety Camp. Bluecher failed from the start and lay down
in the snow directly the depot party left us. Forde lifted him up, but
his legs were limp and would not support him. We rubbed the poor pony's
legs and did what we could for him, poor old Forde being practically in
tears over the little beast. To give one an idea of this wretched
animal's condition, when it was decided to kill him for humanity's sake
and his throat was cut by Keohane with a sailor's knife, there was hardly
any blood to let out. It was a rotten day for all three of us, blowing
too hard to travel until very late, and a second pony, Blossom, was doing
his best to die. We made some little way homeward, Keohane, James Pigg
and myself pulling the sledge with our gear on it, and Forde lifting,
carrying, and pushing Blossom along. I felt I ought to kill this animal
but I knew how angry and disappointed Scott would be at the loss, so