is quite bitter again,
55 deg. Fahr. (-48.5 deg. C.) and from 16 to 26 feet of wind. It is by no means
pleasant work standing up on the windmill, reefing or taking in the
sails; it means aching nails, and sometimes frost-bitten cheeks; but
it has to be done, and it is done. There is plenty of 'mill-wind' in
the daytime now--this is the third week we have had electric light--but
it is wretched that it should be always this north and northwest wind;
goodness only knows when it is going to stop. Can there be land north
of us? We are drifting badly south. It is hard to keep one's faith
alive. There is nothing for it but to wait and see what time will do.

"After a long rest the ship got a shake this afternoon. I went on
deck. Pressure was going on in an opening just in front of the bow. We
might almost have expected it just now, as it is new moon; only we
have got out of the way of thinking at all about the spring tides,
as they have had so little effect lately. They should of course be
specially strong just now, as the equinox is approaching.

"Friday, March 9th. The net-line pointed slightly southwest this
morning; but the line attached to a cheese which was only hanging
a few fathoms below the ice to thaw faster, seemed to point in the
opposite direction. Had we got a southerly current together with the
wind now? H'm! in that case something must come of it! Or was it,
perhaps, only the tide setting that way?

"Still the same northerly wind; we are steadily bearing south. This,
then, is the change I hoped the March equinox would bring! We have been
having northerly winds for more than a fortnight. I cannot conceal
from myself any longer that I am beginning to despond. Quietly
and slowly, but mercilessly, one hope after the other is being
crushed and ... have I not a right to be a little despondent? I long
unutterably after home, perhaps I am drifting away farther from it,
perhaps nearer; but anyhow it is not cheering to see the realization
of one's plans again and again delayed, if not annihilated altogether,
in this tedious and monotonously killing way. Nature goes her age-old
round impassively; summer changes into winter; spring vanishes away;
autumn comes, and finds us still a mere chaotic whirl of daring
projects and shattered hopes. As the wheel revolves, now the one
and now the other comes to the top--but memory betweenwhiles lightly
touches her ringing silver chords--now loud like a roaring waterfall,
now low a