IN ANTARCTICA

Hokitika Guardian, 27 June 1929, Page 3

IN ANTARCTICA

(By Russell Owen—Copyrighted 1929 by the New York Times Company, and St. Louis Post Dispatch. All rights for publication reserved throughout the world. Wireless to New York Times.)

BYRD’S CAMP

United Press Association —By Electric

Telegraph—Copyright)

BAY OF WHALES, June 23

One of the welcome interruptions in tho monotony of our existence during (lie long night is listening to the broadeast from ’New>,-Zealand. It conies in after we go to lied. Each hunk is lighted by candle, so wo can read. It is just after tea when premonitory buzzes aiql clicks in the loud speaker, fastened' to the top of the partition, warns us .that music is about to come twenty-three hundred miles over the seas. New ZcahViid ds tlie nearest inhabited land,'- ,apd : : voices and music seem somehow to’ break down our sense of isloation for a 'few minutes, while wo snuggle.down m sleeping bags, and think many things that have no connection with the Antarctic. Wc can almost see tlie inside of a broadcast-ill'-' studio in Wellington. Wc can imagine wlint men and women look like. It is a part of tlie world we have left, and 't, adds somewhat to the piquancy o> ■>ur cniovmont that they cannot c •••-■

plctelv visualise our environment; and' that they cannot realise the pleasure -hey give a group of men so • cut off .from a civilised community. A rasp ing roar comes 'from the loud speaker and then.. as it is tuned down, the gay notes of an orchestra playing dune music comes floating into the room Back there are cabarets filled with lien and women whirling merrily abor ind many homes, where those listen'; to the same music, sit before cheerfr wood fires. They are clad in garments which we have almost forgotten, laugh mg as they talk, probably entirely unconscious that Far South of them is this little group getting far more enjoyment from the music which they near.. It is bur invisible bond with u. world of comfort and security; invis iblc, but none the loss real, because it has its roots in our memory and in our anticipations. Our world is one of soft moonlight,- on an undulating and shadowy sui'face of snow. The night is cold and clear, and the sky a deep howl of velvet, set with stars. A few it reamers of aurora dart across the sky, stabbing the darkness with tremulous lingers of light. And how dift’ern.t'is 0.. r home tiv.ni theirs. On a top mnk, where the air is warmest, is a man in his underclothes, leaning back against an ingenious sloping board, which lie can raise when lie turns in tor tlie night. He is writing a diary iy Hie light of a candle, stopping now and then to listen and smile a broad smile of satisfaction at some new and lilting measure which readies ws from far over the sea. He has a picturesque beard, and his own wife would hardly recognise in him the trim figure in uni:!orm who seven months ago walked Hie streets of Dunedin. In a lower bunk across the way lies a figure in his sleeping hag (for it quickly gets cold near the floor when the fires dies down), his hands clasped under his bead, staring up at the hunk above him, and thinking—who knows what thoughts, probably of flying—for his whole world is aviation. Next to him is a man with a beard and a bald shaved bead, which be has covered with a mutch cap,, reading Shakespeare by the light of a candle. He is a scientist, but bo looks more like a pirate. Sometimes there is the sound of a woman’s voice in the playing or singing, and it sounds odd; so long lias it been since wo have lived where there are women. This is a masculine world, the one place on the globe where women have never been. There is ; queer impersonal intonseness in listening to her. She would be amused could she see her av.dience. Then her voice will grow fainter as it fades ii: response to some strange law of radio. It fades, and becomes almost lost lielore it returns. Jt is as if the life that life we know—swung closer to us for a moment, and then was swept nwav, still singing, as though by a mighty force, against which we unconsciously strain’ to hold a little longer the touch of far-away tilings. Sometimes it does not return, but moves farther and farther away, until an almost imperceptible and glmst-like whisper of home, and then is silent. We wa : t a little longer,‘hoping it will come again, but tubes merely crackle and snap cxasperatingl.v. A door is opened, books are resumed, and one by one the lights go out. and the only sound is tlie sigh of the wind in the chimney pipes.