With all its troubles it is a good life.  We came back from the Barrier, telling one another we loathed the place and nothing on earth should make us return.  But now the Barrier comes back to us, with its clean, open life, and the smell of the cooker, and its soft sound sleep.  So much of the trouble of this world is caused by memories, for we only remember half.

We have forgotten—­or nearly forgotten—­how the loss of a biscuit crumb left a sense of injury which lasted for a week; how the greatest friends were so much on one another’s nerves that they did not speak for days for fear of quarrelling; how angry we felt when the cook ran short on the weekly bag; how sick we were after the first meals when we could eat as much as we liked; how anxious we were when a man fell ill many hundreds of miles from home, and we had a fortnight of thick weather and had to find our depots or starve.  We remember the cry of Camp Ho! which preceded the cup of tea which gave us five more miles that evening; the good fellowship which completed our supper after safely crossing a bad patch of crevasses; the square inch of plum pudding which celebrated our Christmas Day; the chanties we sang all over the Barrier as we marched our ponies along.

We travelled for Science.  Those three small embryos from Cape Crozier, that weight of fossils from Buckley Island, and that mass of material, less spectacular, but gathered just as carefully hour by hour in wind and drift, darkness and cold, were striven for in order that the world may have a little more knowledge, that it may build on what it knows instead of on what it thinks.

Some of our men were ambitious:  some wanted money, others a name; some a help up the scientific ladder, others an F.R.S.  Why not?  But we had men who did not care a rap for money or fame.  I do not believe it mattered to Wilson when he found that Amundsen had reached the Pole a few days before him—­not much.  Pennell would have been very bored if you had given him a knighthood.  Lillie, Bowers, Priestley, Debenham, Atkinson and many others were much the same.

But there is no love lost between the class of men who go out and do such work and the authorities at home who deal with their collections.  I remember a conversation in the hut during the last bad winter.  Men were arguing fiercely that professionally they lost a lot by being down South, that they fell behindhand in current work, got out of the running and so forth.  There is a lot in that.  And then the talk went on to the publication of results, and the way in which they would wish them done.  A said he wasn’t going to hand over his work to be mucked up by such and such a body at home; B said he wasn’t going to have his buried in museum book-shelves never to be seen again; C said he would jolly well publish his own results in the scientific journals.  And the ears of the armchair scientists who might deal with our hard-won specimens and observations should have been warm that night.