Camp Four, Again
Well, we're still here. The blizzard continues, all last night and I am writing this late in the afternoon.
We have done everything possible to shelter and protect the ponies but there seems no way of doing so when the snow is thick and driving fast. We men are snug and comfortable enough, but it is very evil to lie here and know that the weather is steadily sapping the strength of the beasts on which so much depends. It requires much philosophy to be cheerful on such occasions.
Meares and the dog party have pulled up to within a quarter mile of us. The dogs don't seem to mind the weather at all and still pull well. They should be able to help us a good deal.
The tents and sledges are badly drifted up, the drifts behind the pony walls having been dug out several times. I shall be glad indeed to be on the march again, and oh! for a little sun. Some of the fine drift snow finds its way under the rugs and straps, which melts and makes the ponies' bellies wet. It is not easy to understand at first why the blizzard should have such a withering effect on the poor beasts. I suppose that hte snow catches on the delicate places where they are harnessed, causing misery.
How is Christopher doing? I found I got a great deal of sympathy for him. He's by far the prettiest, too.
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