Our position at the top of the mast is like that of a bird far up under the heavens. The great ugly-looking, but vigorous, giant petrels are dashing past our heads with an air of inquisitiveness. The little dove-like white petrels come to us almost within reach of our arms, and the graceful brown sea-gulls rush over us and around us with a startling buzz. We are inclined to drift into poetry and philosophy this morning, and everything about encourages this mood. The day, with a temperature -9° C. (15.8° F.), is a delight, and as we look down upon the endless expanse of restless frigid ocean, with its primitive life and death-like silence, we dream of primeval nature. For here is the world nearest to its youthful character. The moving crust of the earth with which we drift, the hardy, simple life, and even the sky, all suggest a period of the earth in its infancy, long before the advent of man. It is this strange simplicity, this other-world air of terrestrial youth, which makes the polar regions so fascinating to nature-loving man. Everything about is new, yet old; every sight is simple, yet clothed in mystery; every phenomenon, like a shy maiden, is attractive but difficult of access. The haste and the bustle of the living world are far from the mental horizon, and the mind is ready to examine the new problems. It is fortunate that one can, after a little experience, here open the book of Nature and record the causes and effects of nearly all phenomena, for then the mysterious halo which surrounds everything polar disappears. Each point of attraction which at first bewilders us by its strangeness becomes a written page to be added to the future annals of science. There are a hundred things which, in this way, present new aspects daily and urge the mind out of its lethargy of monotony into a state of fascination. Now we see some peculiar strip on the sky, a striking series of clouds, a rare fog effect, an unusual sunburst, or an aurora; then it is something connected with the sea or its burden, the ice. Perhaps the surface will seem motionless, while at a little distance a small blue-ridged berg will bound and dance as if animated by some strange submarine spirit; or perhaps one of the bergs, with whose face we are familiar, will suddenly turn, offering a new face and a curious colour. Again a berg is seen with black spots and discoloured stratifications. What is the origin of this? Is it the output of a volcano, or is it natural glacial debris? We see the effects, but what are the causes? And so the questions run. Hardly have we learned one lesson when another is brought to our notice. This time, perhaps, it is some speck of life, curiously embedded in a wilderness of ice. What story has it to give? To what family does it belong? We want to know its manner of life, its food, something of its migration, and so on. There is always a stimulus for an endless series of interesting observations. It is these tempting studies which lift