The disturbed Emperors made a tremendous row, trumpeting with their curious metallic voices.  There was no doubt they had eggs, for they tried to shuffle along the ground without losing them off their feet.  But when they were hustled a good many eggs were dropped and left lying on the ice, and some of these were quickly picked up by eggless Emperors who had probably been waiting a long time for the opportunity.  In these poor birds the maternal side seems to have necessarily swamped the other functions of life.  Such is the struggle for existence that they can only live by a glut of maternity, and it would be interesting to know whether such a life leads to happiness or satisfaction.

I have told[156] how the men of the Discovery found this rookery where we now stood.  How they made journeys in the early spring but never arrived early enough to get eggs and only found parents and chicks.  They concluded that the Emperor was an impossible kind of bird who, for some reason or other, nests in the middle of the Antarctic winter with the temperature anywhere below seventy degrees of frost, and the blizzards blowing, always blowing, against his devoted back.  And they found him holding his precious chick balanced upon his big feet, and pressing it maternally, or paternally (for both sexes squabble for the privilege) against a bald patch in his breast.  And when at last he simply must go and eat something in the open leads near by, he just puts the child down on the ice, and twenty chickless Emperors rush to pick it up.  And they fight over it, and so tear it that sometimes it will die.  And, if it can, it will crawl into any ice-crack to escape from so much kindness, and there it will freeze.  Likewise many broken and addled eggs were found, and it is clear that the mortality is very great.  But some survive, and summer comes; and when a big blizzard is going to blow (they know all about the weather), the parents take the children out for miles across the sea-ice, until they reach the threshold of the open sea.  And there they sit until the wind comes, and the swell rises, and breaks that ice-floe off; and away they go in the blinding drift to join the main pack-ice, with a private yacht all to themselves.

You must agree that a bird like this is an interesting beast, and when, seven months ago, we rowed a boat under those great black cliffs,[157] and found a disconsolate Emperor chick still in the down, we knew definitely why the Emperor has to nest in mid-winter.  For if a June egg was still without feathers in the beginning of January, the same egg laid in the summer would leave its produce without practical covering for the following winter.  Thus the Emperor penguin is compelled to undertake all kinds of hardships because his children insist on developing so slowly, very much as we are tied in our human relationships for the same reason.  It is of interest that such a primitive bird should have so long a childhood.