February 5 and 6 were blizzard days during which no move could be made, and it was not until nearly 11 p.m. on the 7th that the hard wind took off and the snow ceased to drift about us.  The blizzards were not serious but were quite sufficient to try the ponies severely—­Blossom, Bluecher, and a third animal, James Pigg, could in no way keep up with the van, although their loads were lightened considerably.  The bluejackets, Forde and Keohane, showed extraordinary aptitude in handling the ponies, but in spite of their efforts their animals were quite done up by February 12, as also was poor old Blossom.  It would have been cruel to continue with them, they were so wasted, and even their eyes were dull and lustreless.  Accordingly, Scott decided to send Bluecher, James Pigg, and Blossom back with Forde, Keohane, and myself.  A reorganisation was made near the 79th parallel, and whilst the main party proceeded southward, Forde, Keohane, and I took our feeble ponies northward with the intention of getting them home to Hut Point before the temperature fell, until the cold would be too great for them to stand.  It was annoying for me to be sent back, still there was plenty of survey work to be done between the turning-point and Safety Camp.  Bluecher failed from the start and lay down in the snow directly the depot party left us.  Forde lifted him up, but his legs were limp and would not support him.  We rubbed the poor pony’s legs and did what we could for him, poor old Forde being practically in tears over the little beast.  To give one an idea of this wretched animal’s condition, when it was decided to kill him for humanity’s sake and his throat was cut by Keohane with a sailor’s knife, there was hardly any blood to let out.  It was a rotten day for all three of us, blowing too hard to travel until very late, and a second pony, Blossom, was doing his best to die.  We made some little way homeward, Keohane, James Pigg and myself pulling the sledge with our gear on it, and Forde lifting, carrying, and pushing Blossom along.  I felt I ought to kill this animal but I knew how angry and disappointed Scott would be at the loss, so kept him going although he showed so much distress.  It was surprising what spirit the little brute had:  if we started to march away Blossom staggered along after us, looking like a spectre against the white background of snow.  We kept on giving him up and making to kill him, but he actually struggled on for over thirty miles before falling down and dying in his tracks.  We built a snow-cairn over him and planted what pony food we had no further use for on the top of the cairn.

The third pony, James Pigg, was kept fit and snug under a big snow-wall whenever we were not marching, and he won home to Safety Camp with very little trouble, frequently covering distances equal to our own marching capability.  Once Safety Camp had been regained we got good weather again and James Pigg became quite frisky, ate all that we could give him, and, to our delight, his eyes regained their brightness and he began to put on flesh.