the bear, he shattered our allegory with a little giggle and followed it by the announcement that it was all a mistake;--“to me it looks like a pot of boiling soup.” Next to the Captain the cook is the most important personage on the ship; there are short instances when he even rises above the Captain. It was so in this case. Michotte canvassed the observers one by one, gave them his glasses and pointed out the rounded base of the huge polished kettle, and then he made steam out of our beautiful statuary in the centre. Dobrowolsky suggested that pots were generally black, but Koren, the cook’s assistant, took a look at the thing and said, “That’s just like our pots, they are always clean and white and polished.” I noticed that everybody, even Racovitza, gave a hearty assent. We dared not do otherwise, for it meant no soup to-morrow, and Kydbolla every day. We can afford to dispute with the naturalist somewhat, we can even doubt the Captain’s eyesight, but we cannot dream of endangering the good-will of Michotte,--it is, then, a pot of boiling soup, and I think Koren added it was “hot stuff;”--even this is granted. 10 P. M.--It is still light enough to write on deck, but there is a little wind coming out of the south which makes ungloved fingers stiff. The temperature is -4° C. (24.8° F.). At two o’clock this afternoon we again came to a region of pack-ice which loved us too well. It closed about and squeezed our sides with such force that we were powerless to resist. We have remained here since, and shall remain for the night. The engine fires have been burned down, but Gerlache says he will make another attempt to push southward to-morrow. There has been considerable animal life about us to-day. In the air we have seen the usual songless and noiseless birds, the giant and the white petrels. Finback whales have been spouting and showing their huge blue backs in the open triangles of water. Seals have been stealing about the ship under the water, curiously examining the hull of the bark without coming to the surface to vent their curiosity by a look upon us. The speck of blackness which the _Belgica_ makes in their world of perennial whiteness must be of rare interest to these semi-human subaqueous denizens. On the ice we have seen a few king penguins, uttering, now and then, a weird _gha-a-ah_. They were always alone, generally standing to the lee of hummocks with heads bowed, looking as solemn and dignified as deacons at a love feast. Roaming about on the floes we see the ever-restless little black-billed, yellow-footed pack penguins. This flightless bird is gregarious and sociable, and must have companions to be happy. It congregates in groups, numbering from six to thirty, and these gatherings are the only cheerful signs of life in the great silent circle around the south pole.