Most of them are now loose, as there is nothing exposed to the attacks of their teeth.  It is now blowing a regular gale; the direction of the wind is about true east.  Occasionally squalls of hurricane-like violence occur.  Fortunately the big snow-drift keeps us comfortable, and we are under the lee of a hill, otherwise it would look badly for our tent.  Hitherto it has held well, but it is beginning to be rather damp inside.  The temperature remains very high (+ 27.2deg.  F. at noon to-day), and the mass of snow pressing against the tent causes the formation of rime.

In order to while away the time to some extent under depressing circumstances like these, I put into my diary on leaving Framheim a few loose leaves of a Russian grammar; Johansen solaced himself with a serial cut out of the Aftenpost; as far as I remember, the title of it was “The Red Rose and the White.”  Unfortunately the story of the Two Roses was very soon finished; but Johansen had a good remedy for that:  he simply began it over again.  My reading had the advantage of being incomparably stiffer.  Russian verbs are uncommonly difficult of digestion, and not to be swallowed in a hurry.  For lack of mental nutriment, Stubberud with great resignation consoled himself with a pipe, but his enjoyment must have been somewhat diminished by the thought that his stock of tobacco was shrinking at an alarming rate.  Every time he filled his pipe, I could see him cast longing looks in the direction of my pouch, which was still comparatively full.  I could not help promising a fraternal sharing in case he should run short; and after that our friend puffed on with an easy mind.

Although I look at it at least every half-hour, the barometer will not go up.  At 8 p.m. it was down to 27.30.  If this means anything, it can only be that we shall have the pleasure of being imprisoned here another day.  Some poor consolation is to be had in the thought of how lucky we were to reach the tent at the last moment the day before yesterday.  A storm as lasting as this one would in all probability have been too much for us if we had not got in.

Wednesday, December 6. —­ the third day of idleness has at last crept away after its predecessors.  We have done with it.  It has not brought any marked variation.  The weather has been just as violent, until now —­ 8 p.m. —­ the wind shows a slight tendency to moderate.  It is, surely, time it did; three days and nights should be enough for it.  The heavy snowfall continues.  Big, wet flakes come dancing down through the opening in the drift in which the peak of the tent still manages to show itself.  In the course of three days we have had more snowfall here than we had at Framheim in ten whole months.  It will be interesting to compare our meteorological log with Lindstrom’s; probably he has had his share of the storm, and in that case it will have given him some exercise in snow-shovelling.