For two days we have had a fierce gale veering from south-east to south-west; an excellent direction to send us north at a rapid pace, which is a pleasant consolation for the ill-effects on the spirits and on the personal comfort. The storm is, of its kind, the worst I have ever seen. The wind is strong, but one could hardly call it a tempest; it brings with it, however, all the elements of misery which follow a tempest. The air is so loaded with very fine snow-crystals that its action upon the face is something of the nature of emery paper. This snow is blown in gusts and constant streams, which scrape and rasp all projections, and bury every declivity, while the snowy surface is cut into small ridges which we call _cestrugi_; and around the _Belgica_ it is deposited to such an extent that nothing but the masts are visible. A very strange accompaniment is a perfectly cloudless blue sky at the zenith, while all along the horizon there is an opaque circle of icy haze, which is tinged with the most delicate hues of red, blue, and yellow. One can nowhere see more than 100 metres, yet this haze seems far off. It is, of course, the driven snow which causes this phenomenon, and also a nearly constant parhelia; but the fact that the sky above is perfectly clear proves that the obscurity is very low on the ice, perhaps not more than ten metres, for the topmasts of the ship are visible above it, and now and then the tops of icebergs also appear. The picturesque effect of this hurling, seething confusion of icy crystals is far beyond my power to paint in words. It is a picture at once full of incomprehensible grandeur, indescribable discomfort, and irresistible attractiveness. But who will tabulate this with enthusiasm when snow is being driven down your neck, into your eyes, ears, and almost into the pores of your skin, while your boots, your mittens, and every opening or fold of clothing are filled with snow at a temperature of -20° C.? Who will paint the colours, or sing the joys of Nature, when the wind pipes the notes of a buzz-saw, and will not permit you to stoop without helping you to a somersault? The Commandant gave us a new programme yesterday for the summer campaign but we do not now regard programmes seriously. We think more of the many little things which cause life to fall and drift and settle into our boots, like the snow around us. Indeed, there are but few things greatly interesting, except the character of our food, the prosecution of our special work, and the prospect of our release from the iron grasp of the rigid pack.