A shop in one village is kept by a Chinaman, who, lettered like most of his race, seems a far shrewder and more intellectual person than the uneducated Russian peasants. He invites the stranger to drink tea that his special caravan brings, and presents Chinese candy with the courtesy of a grandee. When, in reciprocity, the traveler buys sugar for his chai, he receives it wrapped in paper covered with hieroglyphics and exhaling the faint unmistakable Chinese odor.

Going always southward, one begins to meet more and more frequently the villages of the Mongol-descended Buriats. “Bratskie” (brotherly people), the Russians call them, for despite the forbidding aspect that flat Mongolian features, high thin noses, yellow-brown skins, and big squat bodies give them, no more peaceful, harmless, and hospitable people exist. They are great and fearless hunters, unexcelled riders, and though still only on the threshold of civilization, are rapidly moving to better things.

All phases of the advance from the nomad to the agricultural stage may be studied among them. The pastoral Buriats, decorated like the Chinese with queues, ride around after their flocks. Their villages lie far away from the lines of convoys, unmarked on the Ministry map, which one is supposed to be following. Each family occupies a little windowless wooden hut, some fifteen feet in diameter. In front of it is planted a pole, carrying at the top a weather-faded pennant, the colors of which in Buriat heraldry indicate the tribe and name of the occupant. Behind the hut are stacks of hay and a wooden corral with sheep and horses. Beside it stands the summer tent, of felt, looking like a great inverted bowl. It is empty in winter, save for a shrine with grotesque pictured gods, fronted by offerings.

In the homes of these least advanced Buriats we loiter no longer than we must. The wooden house which shelters them is hermetically sealed, and is crowded with people and animals. Fenced off in a corner of the first that receives us is a corral of thirteen lambs, which at uncertain moments begin to bleat suddenly in unison, producing, with startling effect, a prodigious volume of sound. When one has been roused from sleep half a dozen times a night by this chorus, he is strongly inspired to move on. The men are out during the day looking to their flocks. The women spend a good part of their time sewing furs or making felt. They are very unclean, and it is a decided relief to get out of their homes, to which the cold compels one to have recourse on a long journey. In spring, with great and understandable relief, these semi-nomads take to their felt tents and move where fancy and pasturage dictate.

One grade higher are those Buriats who have learned some rudimentary farming from the Orthodox. You will see the men threshing on a level floor beside the corral. They are dressed in long blue or magenta fur-lined cloaks and colored cone-shaped hats. Other Buriats are permanently resident in the Slavonic settlements, and send their rosy-faced children to school. They mix with the Russians, subject to almost no disabilities, and their better classes contract inter-racial marriages, which seem, to an outsider, at least, completely happy and successful.

It is no small thing, this which Russian rule has done for the Buriats. A people whom any other nation would spurn in racial ostracism, perhaps would eliminate, live side by side with the good-natured Slav in perfect accord, progressing in civilization and material well-being as high as the individual can aspire to and attain.

They are ruled by their own chiefs, whose sway is tempered by the benevolent supervision of the general government. They are represented in the Duma by men of their own selection. They freely worship the Buddhist Burhan in their lamasery near Cellinginsk, without pope to preach or missionary to proselyte. Their easy citizenship is unharassed by money taxes, and their only obligation is Cossack service in the army. But Cossack service to a Buriat is what a picnic is to a boy. Riding around on horseback, rationed by the Government, visiting a city with real tobacco and vodka sometimes attainable, sleeping on a straw-stuffed mattress with no tethered lambs to murder sleep, when they are used to a sheepskin on the dirt floor,—all this is luxury of blissful memory, during the years of the reserve. The net result is that the Buriats are entirely content. They are progressing all along the line, and are being made useful to the nation, not by unpayable taxation, but by the service which they are so especially fitted to render.

As one nears Chinese territory, by the lower waters of the Chickoya River, the villages of Slavic colonists who hold their land on tax-paying peasant tenure, have given place to the Buriat tribesmen and to the stanitzas of the Cossack guard that occupy the pale of land flanking the frontier. Within this border-belt, every village stanitza holds its quota of Cossacks. These soldiers are for the most part descendants of the levies from the Don region, transplanted to the Trans-Baikal by the Government’s despotic hand in the eighteenth century, and since then forming an hereditary military caste. Many of them are bearded Slavs, indistinguishable, save for their accoutrements, from their more peaceful neighbors. Others are of a peculiar cast of countenance, due to the mixture with the Asiatic tribes in ancient times, when the hunted people fled to their ancestors’ asylum, the territories beyond the Volga and on the Don. There is great variation in type among the imported Cossacks. Most are Orthodox, but a very large number are “Old Believers,” or Semieski. In all the houses now hang the yellow cap and the uniform coat, which must be ever ready against the call of duty. Arms are in the corners of the rooms, and everything has a military look, in marked contrast to the peasant homes. Crude, highly-colored prints of Japanese defeats, which circulated broadcast in Russia during the war, share the attention usually devoted exclusively to holy ikons. Portraits of Generals Linevitch and Kuropatkin, and Admiral Alexiev, are tacked to the walls. In one house we saw hanging a prized silver watch, one of those distributed by General Rennenkamp among the soldiers of his command.

One of our Cossack hosts is an old man, Orthodox, and of Russian origin, but with some ancient Asiatic blood, for only a stringy beard grows on his kindly, wrinkled face. With reluctant pride he tells of his three sons away on service, leaving but himself and two daughters at home. With frank happiness he shows you his medals. Every soldier at the front received a round brass service-medal; his, however, a silver cross with St. George and the Dragon on it, is given for valor. He will not drink the vodka he offers you,—rheumatism. But in order that you may smoke some alleged tobacco that greatly interests him because he gathered it himself by the roadside, in Manchuria, he starts up his pipe despite the dust-induced coughs that it begets. He is a kindly, loquacious old man.

Another Cossack, privileged to the broad yellow top on his cap and the yellow stripe on his trousers, is, for the time, our guide and gun-carrier. His flat strongly-mustached face is open and ingenuous. He tells of his sotnia in Manchuria.

“I was with Mitschenko at the front during the war, in his great raid,” he says. “Ten of our sotnia of a hundred were killed, forty wounded. We got behind the Japanese and burned four hundred of their wagons. We had two hundred rounds of cartridges, and more when we wanted them. But food often not, and meat sometimes not for two months. We had thirty Buriats in our hundred, but the Verhneudinsk Polk were almost all Buriats.”

In one house where ikons, oven, bench, and stockade reveal the Slav peasant’s home, the mirrors are shrouded for their forty days’ veiling. It is a place of death. The owner was a full-blooded Buriat married to a Russian woman. In silent grief she plods through her mechanically-executed duties. Their son, in red blouse, is in prayer beside his father’s body. They have pressed us to remain. The advent of strangers seems to distract their thoughts a little. From outside comes a hail, and heavily there dismounts from his pony an old grizzled Buriat Cossack. He has ridden two hundred versts to pay this last respect to his friend.

His military training makes the Cossack a little less gentle than the average peasant. When off duty, hen-roosts near a garrison are in some danger. For the rest, he is naturally brave, generous, and will share the chicken he has just ridden forty versts to lift. He will give his pipe to be smoked, and will behave with a thoughtfulness and courtesy that is not found in finer circles. His children have the free unrepressed air which speaks of genial home kindliness and sympathy. His wife is far from being a mute drudge.

Assuredly this is not the Cossack of legendary fame, the “implacable knout” of the czars. It requires almost courage, in the face of the savage of literary tradition, to assert that the Cossack is other than a dehumanized monster of oppression. Why then did he cut down with utter ruthlessness the helplessly frozen grenadiers of the Grande Armée? Why will he massacre indiscriminately men, women, and children on his path from Tien-tsin to Peking? Why will he beat with his knotted whip the striking girl students of Kiev? Who shall tell? To a certain extent he is callous to suffering because of a defective imagination. He will ride his best horse to death if need be. Loving it, he will yet leave it out in weather forty below. He is cruel, often, because he has not the substituting gift needed to translate another’s suffering into terms of his own. He is valorous because, even so far as regards himself, he cannot think beyond the immediate privation into the future of imaged dread, so he goes fearlessly into unpondered peril. He offends the traditional ideas of humanity and civilization in killing people, because of his failure to recognize a wider radius of sympathy than circles his own tribe. But if the tribe circumscribes his idea, the nation circumscribes the sympathies of others who make tariffs to crush an extra-national industry and raise armies to destroy a foreign liberty. But if outside the Cossack’s recognized circle, you are to him beyond the pale, in his home, you are, ipso facto, a member of the tribe, a brother in whose defense he will gayly risk his life, and spend his substance.

The deeds that are recalled to the Cossack’s discredit often fall for judgment really to those who plan and issue the orders which loyalty makes him obey. Where his allegiance has been once given, there it remains. His hataman is more than a superior officer; he is the chief of the clan, the head of all the tribe, and the subordinate is united to him by the traditions of centuries of mutual dependence. Where other than blood-kin officers are put over the Cossack he mutinies, as when, in Manchuria, Petersburg-schooled lieutenants were drafted and raised to command. But give him his own rightful chief, then if the Cossack is told to do something it is done. He will cross himself and jump from the tower, as in Holland did Peter the Great’s guardsman at the word of the chief to whom he had given his loyalty.

The savage valor of the warriors in Verestchagin’s picture, The Cossack’s Answer, is typical of the spirit of these soldiers. Surrounded by battalions of the foe, fated to annihilation when the summons to surrender is rejected, the leaders, laughing uproariously in approval, hear their hataman dictate the insulting reply that dooms them all. If one would ride to China he can have no better guards and comrades than the Cossacks.

We are close to the border now, climbing the last crest which separates the Chickoya from the Cellinga Valley, our toiling tired ponies white with frost. All day the long sweep of the hills has been taken through heavy snow. The landscape is barren, desolate, and lifeless save for the occasional sight of a distant Buriat horseman. The sun is slowly sinking.

The crest at last! The driver points with his whip to the dark masses of houses below, wreathed in the curling smoke of the evening fires. Here and there is a brilliantly painted building or tower, and sleighs and horsemen are passing in the streets. “Troitzkosavsk!” he says. He points further ahead to another more distant town, whose most dominant features are the great square tea-caravansaries and a mighty church, green-domed, with a gilded far-glimmering cross. The huddled houses end sharply toward the south, as if a ruler had marked off their limit in a straight stretch of white. Along this pale are little square sentry-boxes, striped black and white. In the evening sun a distant glint of steel flashes from the bayonet of a pacing sentry. “Kiahta!” the driver says. Then, across the white strip where a wooden stockade girds a settlement of gray-walled compounds, fluttering with tiny flags, gay with lofty towers and temples flaunting their red eaves, he points a third time: “Kitai!” (China).

He picks up the reins, and lifts the whip; “Scurry!” he cries to the horses. The ponies leap forward, throwing their weight against duga and collar, and we sweep down the hill toward the nearest Russian town, Troitzkosavsk, four versts from the border.

As we come down to the main road hard-by the town, officers of the garrison drive past with their spick-and-span fast trotters, city-wise, as one sees them in Irkutsk. Behind rolls a Mongol cart driven by a burly Chinaman. A Buriat, come to town to replenish his supply of powder and ball, follows on his shaggy pony.

Down a long street, flanked first by log cabins with courtyards and fences like those in the peasant villages, then by stucco-plastered houses, cement-walled government buildings, and great whitewashed churches, we pass and reach the centre of the town. Then we turn up a side street to the house of a mine-owner, to whom we are accredited.

Nicolai Vladimirovitch Tobagov meets us at the door of his log house, clad in gray flannel shirt and knee-boots. A not unnoteworthy product of Siberia is this man,—squarely built and yet wiry, with nervous strength expressed on his bearded face. He is self-made, risen from the masses. A peasant-boy, he started life as assistant to a surveyor, learning to read and write by his own efforts. During this apprenticeship he studied his chief’s books on geology, by the light of the brands for the samovar in the peasants’ houses where they were billeted nightly.

He located placer gold in a number of spots, at a time when the oblast was a lawless “no man’s domain,” without any legal means in existence for acquiring title to property. Guarding in silence his secret, he waited years, until at last a mining-law was enacted for the oblast where his prospects lay. When this law ultimately made private ownership possible, he started in to realize. A friend lent him the money for a mill, which he constructed, according to book-descriptions, on the model of those in California. At first it failed to work, and broke again and again. His riffles were set too steeply. They had let the gold scour away, and his neighbors reported that there was no gold to collect. But he fought it through to victory, returned every borrowed kopeck with interest, bought new machines, and prospered; till now, besides controlling several mines, he possesses a great domain in the river valley, some hundred versts away, with fields of wheat and rye and hay-meadows.

When the visitor has stamped the snow from his felt boots and emerged from his shaggy bearskin coat and hooded fur cap, he enters the main room, with its walls of great logs bare of ornament and showing the scorings of the axe, but clean as new-planed wood can be. Between the chinks straw and moss are packed to keep out the cold. Two great benches flank the sides of the room. Not a picture, not an ornament, not a curtain, not a drapery, not a shelf, breaks the plainness of the log wall, but here and there are hung guns and rifles. In essentials this large house does not greatly differ from the typical peasant’s dwelling. But a copy of the “Sibir” newspaper lies on the table, and photographs of the female members of the family are added to the many reproductions of relations in military dress, which the photographer has touched up with brilliant dashes of red, to pay tribute to the coat-lining, and white to indicate the gloves. Lamps replace the lowly tapers, and they burn before more gorgeously gilt ikons. The windows are double, with cotton-wool and strips of colored paper between. This is a great improvement on the single ice-crusted window, with its perpetual drippings down along the sill. There are the little sheet-iron stoves, whitewashed after the tradition of the oven; chairs with backs, as well as the square stools; and small rooms curtained off from each other. A clock hangs on the wall, and there are carpets on the floor. A large table stands at one end, on which is the ever-boiling samovar, which is nickel instead of brass.

We are made acquainted with the wife of the host, a stout matron of fine domestic proclivities. Though of humble origin, she has discarded her peasant shako and bandana-handkerchief headdress for a bonnet, and dispenses, as to the manner born, many luxuries. On the other hand, she has lost the robustness which keeps her peasant sisters fresh and hearty. Sewing-machines, and beds, and servants, must exact toll even in Siberia. Her boys are clean-cut and intelligent. They go to school and are the future “Intellectuals” that are seeding Siberia. Sixteen children—eleven Nicolai Tobagov’s own, five adopted in open-hearted generosity—sit down to four very solid meals a day in the big hall. Ivan Simeonski, optovie and argove merchant, and Nicita Baeschoef the lieutenant, traveling west on furlough, are stopping in this friendly house, and many other guests are here. The hospitality of the household is conducted on a scale of patriarchal magnificence.

Before our furs are fairly off, the host has called aloud for obeid. One’s first formality is, as usual, to salute the ikons and the guests. One’s second is to escape the scalding vodka, seventy proof, and then begin with the zakuska of ten cold dishes on the side table. There is black caviar from the Volga, though the rapid diminution of the supply has raised the price to ten roubles a pound. There is red caviar from the Chickoya, cold mutton, cold sturgeon, sardines, ham, and sliced sausages made at home. The latter must be abundantly and appreciatively sampled, because they have been specially prepared under the direction of the souprouga herself. One stands before the zakuska and dips from dish to dish. Next, the guests take the square wooden stools and draw up to the great table, where the plates are set for the real dinner. Each one helps himself to the smoking soup, which is passed in the tureen. As this is being ladled, a plate of round balls comes by, the delicious piroushki, dough-shells filled with hashed meat, always served with soup. We have entered upon a typical Siberian meal, with the boiled soup-meat eaten as the second course, and madeira, champagne, claret, and rum, indiscriminately offered. A perfect babel of conversation goes on, and one is pressed to try this, try that, try each and everything of the long menu, under the watchful eyes of the kindly host and hostess.

At all times of the day the samovar is left simmering, ready for any one of the multitudinous household to brew tea, and constantly replenished zakuska dishes deck the sideboard. Guests, attendants, children, and friends come and go in the utmost freedom. Such is the Hazan’s life.

In another part of the building there stuffs to repletion an army of dependents. Servants, artisans, drivers from the caravans which pass up from China by the road below the house, a whole other below-stairs world is here. Twenty caravan teamsters, karetniki or isvoschniki of the sledges and carts that fill the ample courtyard, huddle in the back rooms for tea. An old bespectacled maker of string-net doilies, who reads Alexander Pushkin’s poems, is working out a week’s board in the room where the chickens are kept. The housewife does not disdain, either, to find a place for the traveling sapojnik, who will put leather reinforcements on the felt boots which have been worn through at the heel. It is a large easy way of living, this of the man who holds a leading place in the border city.

A mixture of crudeness and culture, of luxury and hardship, of Orient and Occident, runs through the quaint fabric of frontier society, with its medley of races and types. Fine avenues flanked by stuccoed houses pierce the main city. Back of them lie the log houses of the plainer citizens, while the outskirts are occupied by the felt huts of the Buriats and Mongols. Students in uniform elbow Cossacks of the Guard, and maidens from the seminary brush the Mongol wood-choppers.

“Téatre?” suggests one evening the twenty-year-old son of your host. Of course the invitation is accepted. At eight o’clock you put on your felt boots, and tramp down past dark-shuttered log houses and the silent white church into the field, where stands a barn-like building placarded with the programme. The young guide secures seats at the ticket-counter of rough lumber. Seventy-five kopecks they are, each. With them are handed out eight numbered slips of red paper. Then together you break a way to the front rows, through the crowd of burly Cossacks of the garrison, bearskin-capped students, citizens with shiny black boots, and here and there a husky stolid-faced Buriat. Keeping hat and coat on, as does every one else, we find seats on the rough benches wheresoever we like or can; for nothing is reserved save the elevated perch of the musicians, where a four-piece orchestra drones out a monotonous Russian march. What a fire-trap! is the first thought. To each of the posts that sustain the rafters is fastened a lamp shedding an uncertain light on the hangings of bright-red cotton cloth, in dangerous proximity to which, utterly disregarding the “no smoking” signs, stand the crowd of forty-kopeck admissions, rolling and smoking perpetual papirosi.

As the impatient audience begins to pound and stamp, a bell rings, and the curtain rises on two comic characters busily engaged in packing for a hurried departure from their lodging. The stage has become a room, with red-cotton-covered walls and bright green curtains. A merchant comes with a bill for comestibles six months due. He is quieted with extravagant tales of forthcoming change for a hundred-thousand-rouble note. The landlady enters, and the shoemaker’s apprentice with a pair of mended boots. Both are likewise cajoled and bullied away. The Jewish money-lender is more difficult, but at length, to the manifest delight of the audience, he, too, is staved off, and the pair draw the vivid green curtains and go out through a window for parts unknown, amid much glee and applause.

We now go out to the “buffet” and contribute to the dangers of conflagration by smoking an offered cigarette. We also add to the theatre’s income by buying a glass of hot chai for ten kopecks. Something special is in the air for the next act. The audience is buzzing and moving in eager expectancy. We return to our seats. The curtain rises upon a double row of two-pud (sixty-four-pound) weights, such as are used at the bazaar to sell frozen beef. Amid a thunder of stampings on the plank floor one of the escaping debtors of the last act, dressed in tights, comes out from behind the green curtains, and lifts one of these above his head. Then he poises one with each hand. Finally a wooden harness is adjusted to his body, and sixteen weights (or about half a ton), are heaped upon him by the jack-booted Buriat stage-attendant on one side, and the defrauded merchant of the first play on the other. It is the most unspectacular performance possible, this athletic test, but it takes the place of a football match in Siberia. The applause is ferociously appreciative.

More chai and cigarettes, and we come back to hear a very pretty girl, dressed in the peasant’s costume of Little Russia, head a chorus, and to see a boy in red blouse and boots dance the wild dervish whirl which the peasants of tradition are supposed to execute. The boy is in the midst of his performance when there is a tumult among the forty-kopeckers under the musicians’ eyrie. The latter, being human, try to watch what is going on below and play jig-music at the same time, and sharps and flats fly wide of the mark till the sounds become frightful. Everybody jumps up on his bench to see a peasant having a turn with a Buriat, and further trouble brewing with a Cossack who has got upset in the mêlée. There is a chaos of tossing hats and brandished fists, and the two armed soldiers who are on guard as policemen press in, with gruff shouts to make them way. The tumult finally goes out the door and into the street, and we turn back to the poor dancer still trying to beat out his stunt.

The curtain rises next on the manager, who has been up to date weight-lifter, escaping boarder, and part of the peasants’ chorus. He is seated at a table, looking very ordinary in his street clothes. Behind him is another table covered with an assortment of crockery, mirrors, spoons, vases, pieces of cotton cloth, and a big striking clock. He calls for a volunteer from the audience for some unknown purpose, and a little rosy-cheeked uniformed Buriat schoolboy, who has been peeking behind flapping curtain between the acts, responds. The boy reaches into a box and pulls out a slip of paper. The manager reads a number from it, “Sto piatdeciet sem.” An eager voice from the rear answers “Jes!” The stage-attendant takes a glass tumbler from the table and carries it solemnly to the man who has answered. Your host nudges until you comprehend that you are to excavate the eight theatre-slips, which you do, to find that two only are seat-tickets. The rest are numbered billets, and you are liable at any moment to receive a perfumery-bottle or a candlestick from the lottery which is in progress. The scene now takes on an imminent personal interest shared with the banked forty-kopeckers behind. A breathless strain accompanies the drawing of the numbers. It mounts to a climax as the big musical clock is approached. The fateful billet is at last drawn in intense silence. Every eye is fixed on the reader. Not a Cossack speaks, not a Mongol moves.

“Dvesti tri!” and a sharp “Moi!” tells that the clock goes to ornament the table of a burly peasant, who grinningly receives it. The tense breaths are let out, the forms relax, and the crowd straggles to the door, lighting cigarettes and pulling down caps. The drama is over. Next morning at eight a soldier visits your host with a message from his chief.

“Bring to the police-station the passport of the stranger seen with you at the theatre last night.”

A town droshky will take one the few versts to Kiahta, where in the Geographical Society’s museum is the celebrated sketch of the Dalai Lama made at Urga by a Russian artist, when the young Tibetan monk had fled before the English expedition to Lhassa. Here, too, are ore samples and reconstructed Mongolian tents. But it is hard to look at fossil rhinoceros-heads and at stuffed sabre-toothed tigers and musk-deer when the camel-trains are passing and China is a verst away. A courier is necessary now, for resourceful Jacov and driver Ivan are strangers beyond the border. Perhaps our host knows of a man acquainted in Mongolia? He will inquire. Next day there presents himself a slight, bearded, intellectual man, Alexander Simeonovich Koratkov, usually called, for short, “Alexsimevich.” Bachelor of forty, educated in the Troitzkosavsk “Realistic” school. He speaks, as well as Russian, Mongolian, English, French, German, and some Chinese. He has translated for the English engineers who were brought in to work the Nerchinsk mines. He is deeply read in Buddhist mythology and sociology. Will he go down into Mongolia with you? Yes; and so it is arranged.

Provisions are cheap and abundant in the Siberian towns. Sixty kopecks buy a pound of caravan tea, seventeen kopecks a pound of sugar, the sort that comes in a cone like a Kalmuck hat. It is a luxury by warrant of public opinion, so much that it has, of note, been served on baked potatoes. Before the Buddha pictures of the Buriats, a few lumps may be the choicest offering. Flour costs six kopecks a pound. Beef, if a great pud-weight forequarter is bought at the market, twenty kopecks. Frozen butter will cost twenty-five kopecks per pound. Eggs, of the Siberian cold-storage variety, forty-eight kopecks a dozen. For thirty kopecks one gets a piece of milk as big as one’s head. But do not try to go beyond the native produce, for canned goods, coffee, or sardines. It is bankruptcy speedier than buying bear-holes. A big magazine will sell pâté de foie gras, imported from France, at two roubles the tin; while beneath the Chinese caravansaries’ arcade, bales of tea will be sold at a few kopecks a pound. One gets cigars in a glass-covered box, with the government stamp, for a rouble and a half, and they will be worth about as much as the strings of twisted tobacco-rope which the Mongols carry off as their single cherished luxury.

And now for transportation. The sledge can serve no more, for the snow goes bare in places along the caravan trail. We must have a tarantass, and in time one is produced for inspection. A cask sawed in half, lengthwise, is the image of its body, a lumber-cart the model of its clumsy wheels and framework. To the tarantass is hitched the trotter, with his big bow yoke to bring the weight of collar and shafts on his back rather than against his neck. At each side of him, with much such a rig as is used to tow canal-boats, are made fast the two galloping horses.

When one goes beyond the post-route with his own equipage he has, fastened under the driver’s seat and behind his own, bags of oats and hay, which must serve as emergency-rations for the horses against the days in which none can be secured along the often deserted trail. Personal provender must be likewise stored away, bags of bread, frozen dumplings to make soup with, tea, sugar, milk-chocolate, milk, candles, cheese, matches, kettles, and whatever else one can think of, or that the ingenuity of Alexsimevich can devise. Hay is piled into the tarantass bottom to supply the want of springs.

A driver who knows the trails has been found, André Banchelski, a tall Siberian, of timbering and hunting antecedents, who has a small stock of Mongol idioms regarding the price of hay and the location of water. He has reached a very good understanding with Katrinka, one of the household dependents, and Nicolai is taking an interest in him.

To-night we go to sleep on Nicolai’s plank couch, ready for the march of the next day. All is ready. To-morrow we cross the Chinese frontier.