Part 14

The kulan is a proud, fascinating creature, full of dignity, strength, and high spirits. He stares curiously at the horseman who approaches him; and then, as if deriding the pursuer, trots off leisurely, playfully lashing his flanks with his tail. If the rider spurs his horse to full speed, the kulan takes to a gallop as easy as it is swift, which bears him like the wind over the steppes and soon carries him out of sight. But even when at full speed he now and again suddenly pulls himself up, halts for a moment, jerks round with his face to the pursuer, neighs, and then, turning, kicks his heels defiantly in the air, and bounds off with the same ease as before. A fugitive troop always orders itself in line, and it is beautiful to see them suddenly halt at a signal from the leader, face round, and again take to flight.

As among all horses, each troop of kulans has a stallion for leader, and he is the absolute master of them all. He leads the troop to pasture as well as in flight, he turns boldly on carnivores which are not superior in force, he permits no quarrelling among his followers, and tolerates no rival, indeed no other adult male in the herd. In every district which the kulans frequent, solitary individuals are to be seen unaccompanied by any troop; they are stallions which have been vanquished and driven off after furious and protracted combats, and which must roam about alone until the next breeding season. In September they again approach the herds, from which the old stallion now drives off the newly-matured stallions, and a fierce battle begins when they catch sight of an opponent. For hours at this season they stand on the crests of steep ridges, with widely-open nostrils raised to the wind, with their eyes on the valley before them. As soon as the banished one sees another stallion, he rushes down at full gallop, and fights to exhaustion with both teeth and hoofs. Should he conquer the leader of a herd, he enters upon his rights, and the mares follow him as they did his predecessor. After the battles are over comes the time of wandering, for the hard winter drives the herds from one place to another, and it is only when spring has fully come that they return to their old quarters. Here, in the end of May or in the beginning of June the mare brings forth her foal, which in every respect resembles that of the domestic horse--a somewhat awkward-looking, but very nimble and lively creature. We had the good fortune to be able to make its acquaintance.

On climbing one of the elongated hillocks of these desert-steppes, we suddenly saw at a short distance three old kulans and a foal, which seemed to be only a few days old. Our Russian companion fired a shot, and away rushed the wild horses, with their hoofs scarce touching the ground, yet exerting their incomparable agility almost with the ease of play, and obviously keeping themselves in check for the sake of the foal. Down rushed all the Kirghiz and Cossacks of our company; our attendants, carried away with the general excitement, also gave chase; and down we also rushed. It was a wild chase. Still playing with their strength, the wild horses made for the distant mountains, while all the riders urged on their steeds to their utmost, till their bellies seemed almost to touch the ground. The desert resounded with the jubilant cries of the Kirghiz, the thundering of their horses at full gallop, the neighing of our slower horses which gnashed at their bridles; fluttering cloaks and kaftans and whirling clouds of dust filled and enlivened the solitudes. Further and further rushed the chase. Then the foal separated itself from its older companions and fell behind; the distance increased between it and the anxious glance which the mother repeatedly cast back; the distance between it and our horsemen decreased; and in a few minutes it was taken. Without resistance it gave itself up to its pursuers; it showed no trace of the characteristic qualities of the adults--wildness, hardly governable self-will, and inconquerable roguishness, which often degenerates into downright spite. Innocently it gazed at us with its large lively eyes, with apparent pleasure it allowed us to stroke its soft skin, without resistance it allowed itself to be led along with a halter, in child-like carelessness it lay down beside us seeking obviously much-needed rest after the heat of the chase. The charming creature at once captivated every one. But who was to find a milk-mare to be its foster-mother, who was to give it rest and care? Both were impossible, and on the second day the lovable creature was dead. With the passion of sportsmen would we have killed a full-grown kulan, but to see the foal die gave us genuine sorrow.

In vain we tried to capture one of the adults; in vain we lay in ambush beside the bound foal in hopes of inveigling its mother; in vain we tried to effect something by driving; none of us had any luck. As a sportsman, I left the dreary solitudes with regret, but as a naturalist I was in the highest degree satisfied, for there I had come to know the noblest creature of the steppes.

THE FORESTS AND SPORT OF SIBERIA.

Siberian scenery gives one an impression of uniformity and monotony, which is mainly due to the fact that the whole country consists of three zones, each more or less homogeneous within itself, though distinct from the other two. Each of these zones preserves its special character everywhere, and the same picture is repeated a hundred times, satiating and blunting the senses till one becomes almost incapable of recognizing or appreciating the charms of any scene. Thus it is that we seldom hear anyone speak with appreciation, much less with enthusiasm, of the scenery of this wide region,--although it certainly deserves both--and, thus, gradually there has become fixed in our minds an impression of Siberia which refuses correction with an obstinacy proportionate to its falseness. Siberia is thought of as a terrible ice-desert, without life, without variety, without charm, as a frozen land under the curse of heaven and of miserable exiles. But it is entirely forgotten that Siberia includes a full third of Asia, and that a region which is almost twice as large as the whole of Europe, which extends from the Ural to the Pacific Ocean, from the Arctic sea to the latitude of Palermo, cannot possibly be excessively monotonous nor uniform in all its parts. But people usually picture only one district of Siberia, and even that in a false light.

In truth the country is richer in variety than any one has hitherto described it. Mountains interrupt and bound the plains, both are brightened by flowing and standing water, the sun floods hills and valleys with shimmering light and gleaming colour, lofty trees and beautiful flowers adorn the whole land, and men live happily, joyous in their homes.

Of course there are undeniable wildernesses even now in Siberia, and these, along with the likewise real ice-deserts, the tundras, do, to a certain extent, justify the popular impression. Dreary also are the forests which lie between the tundra and the steppes, and form the third zone. In them man never ventures to establish himself; on them the industry of the settlers along their borders make relatively little impression; within them the forces of nature hold absolute sway, creating and destroying without interference. The flame of heaven sets the trees ablaze, the raging winter-storm hurls them to the ground; the forests rise and disappear without any human control, and may in the fullest sense of the word be called primeval. Full of mystery they attract, and at the same time inhospitably repel; inviting they seem to the hunter, but resistant they bar his steps; rich gain they promise the eager merchant, but postpone the fulfilment of his wishes to the future. This girdle of forest extends, as we have mentioned, between the steppes and the tundra. Here and there it encroaches on both; here and there they intrude upon it. At certain places in both the unwooded zones, a compact wood may dispute possession with the characteristic vegetation of steppes or of tundra, as the case may be, but such isolated woods are almost always like islands in the sea, for whose presence there is no obvious justification. In the steppes they are restricted to the northern slopes of the mountains and to the valleys, in the tundra to the deepest depressions. But in both cases they are unimportant in comparison with the measureless extent of the forest zone, in which it is only here and there that a stream, a lake, or a swamp interrupts the continuity of the wilderness of trees which extends on all sides. A conflagration may make a clearing, or, at the extreme fringe, man may make a gap, but otherwise there is no interruption. Whole countries, as we know them, might find space in one of these immense forest tracts; and there are kingdoms of smaller area than some of them. What the interior is like no one can tell, for not even by the streams which flow from them can one penetrate far, and even the boldest sable-hunters do not know more than a margin of at most fifty or sixty miles.

The general impression which the Siberian forests make on the German traveller is by no means favourable. At the apparently boundless tracts which are wooded, he is of course astonished, but he cannot be enthusiastic, or at least very rarely. The creative, productive, renewing power of the North does not seem to be adequate to balance the destructive forces. Hoary age stands side by side with fresh youth, but somehow there is no vitality in the combination; incomputable wealth appears in beggar’s garb; and moribund life without any promise of vigorous rejuvenescence inhibits any feeling of joy. Everywhere we seem to perceive the hard struggle for existence, but nowhere are we really fascinated or attracted by the spirit of the woods, nowhere does the interior fulfil the expectations which the external aspect suggested. The splendour of the primitive forests in lower latitudes is entirely and absolutely lacking in this derelict, uncared-for woodland. The life which stirs within them seems as if it had already fallen under the shadow of death.

True forest, full of fresh life, with continuance amid a regular succession of changes, is rare. The devastation wrought by fire is a much more frequent spectacle. Sooner or later a lightning-flash, or the culpable carelessness of the Siberian, sets the forest in a blaze. Favoured by the season and the weather the conflagration spreads in a manner scarce conceivable. Not for hours, but for days, or even for weeks, the destruction rages. On the mossy and turfy ground the flames smoulder and creep further and further; the quantities of dry and mouldy débris on the ground feed them, dry branches hanging down to the ground, or dead trunks, still upright, lead them to the tops of the living trees. Hissing and cracking the resinous needles fall, and a gigantic spray of sparks rises to heaven. In a few minutes the giant tree is dead, and the destruction spreads; the rockets which radiate from it fall in thousands of sparks, and all around fresh flames spring from the glowing seed. Thus every minute the fire gains ground, and destruction spreads on all sides uncontrolled. In a few hours square miles of the forest are ablaze. Over hundreds of square versts steaming clouds of smoke darken the sun; slowly, but thickly, and ever more thickly, the ashes drizzle down, and tell by day to distant settlers, as the glow reflected in the sky proclaims by night, that there is a fire in the forest. Affrighted animals carry terror into the surrounding townships. Immediately after great forest-fires, bears appear in districts where they have not been seen for years; wolves wander over the open country in formidable troops as if it were winter; elks, stags, roedeer and reindeer seek new homes in distant forests; and squirrels in countless swarms hurry through wood and plain, field and meadow, village and town. How many of the terror-stricken beasts fall victims to the fire no one can estimate, but it has been found that woodlands desolated by conflagration remain for many years thereafter without fresh settlers, and that the valuable beasts of the chase have entirely disappeared from many of these desolated districts. The devastation is sometimes on a scale of vast magnitude; thus, in 1870, a fire which raged for about fourteen days destroyed a million and a quarter acres of valuable forest in the government of Tobolsk, while clouds of smoke and showers of ashes were borne to a distance of a thousand miles from the seat of the conflagration.

For many years the devastated woodland remains like an immense succession of ruins; even after a generation or two the limits of the conflagration may be recognized and defined. The flames destroy the life of almost all the trees, but they devour only those which were already dry; thus stems more smoked than charred remain standing, and even their tops may remain bereft only of their needles, young shoots, and dry twigs. But they are dead and their destruction is in process. Sooner or later they are bound to fall before the storm. One after another is hurled to the ground, and one after another is robbed of its branches, its crown, or a third or a fourth of the trunk is broken off from the top. Across one another, at all angles, and at different levels, thousands of these tree-corpses lie prostrate on the ground already thickly covered with piles of débris. Some rest on their roots and top-branches, others lean on the still upright stems of their neighbours, and others already lie crumbling among the fallen branches, their tops often far from their trunks, their branches scattered all around. To the lover of the woods, those stems which still withstand the storm have perhaps an even more doleful appearance than those which have fallen. They stand up in nakedness like bare masts. Only a few retain their tops, or parts of them, for several years after the fire; but the weather-beaten twigless branches of the crowns rather increase than lessen the mournfulness of the picture. Gradually all the crowns sink to the ground, and the still upright trunks become more and more rotten. Woodpeckers attack them on all sides, chisel out nesting-holes, and make yard-long passages leading into the tree’s heart, thus allowing the moisture free entrance and accelerating the process of decay. In the course of years even the largest trunk has mouldered so completely that it is really one huge homogeneous mass of rotten tinder which has lost all stability. Indeed, a rough shake from a man’s hand is sufficient to make it fall into a heap of shapeless débris. Finally, even this disappears, and there is left a treeless expanse, broken only here and there by the last traces of a trunk.

But even here a new life begins to rise from amid the ruins. Some years after the conflagration, the charred ground, manured by ashes and decayed débris, begins once more to be adorned. Lichens and mosses, ferns and heaths, and above all various berry-bearing bushes cover the ground and the débris of the trees. These flourish more luxuriantly here than anywhere else, and they begin to attract animals as various as those which the flames had banished. Seeds of birch borne by the wind germinate and become seedlings, which gradually form, at first exclusively, a thicket as dense as if it had sprung from man’s sowing. After some years a young undergrowth has covered the field of the dead; after a longer interval other forest trees gradually arise in the room of their predecessors. Every forest-fire spares some parts of the region which it embraces; even isolated trees may survive in the midst of the burned area, and effect the re-sowing of the desolated tract. Sheets of water and deep gorges may set limits to the fire, and it may even happen that the flames, leaping over a gulley, continue their devastation on the opposite bank without injuring the trees in the depths beneath. Moreover, individual larch-trees which have been attacked by the fire may escape destruction. The bases of the trunks are charred and all the needles are shrivelled up, but often the crown bursts forth afresh, and for a time the tree continues, though somewhat miserably, to live.

In comparison with the ravages of the flames, the devastations for which man is directly responsible seem trivial, but in themselves they are of no slight importance. Of forest-culture the Siberian has no conception. The forest belongs to God, and what is His is also the peasant’s; thus, in view of the practically infinite wealth, he never thinks of sparing, but does what he pleases, what the needs of the moment seem to him to demand. Every Siberian fells and roots out, where and as he pleases, and everyone destroys infinitely more than he really requires. For a few cones he will fell a pine, even if it be in the prime of growth; to obtain building wood he will cut down three or four times the quantity required, leaving the residue without a thought, often not even using it for fuel. Already, such careless procedure has entailed serious consequences. The woods in the neighbourhood of townships, and here and there even those near the highways, are worked out, and appear scarce better than those which the fire has devastated; and still the work of destruction goes on. It is only since 1875 that there have been forest-officers in Western Siberia, and even they give their attention rather to the exploitation than to the renewal of the woods.

Even where neither man nor fire has ravaged them the forests present an appearance essentially different from ours--an appearance of complete, absolutely uncontrolled naturalness. It is but rarely, however, that this attracts us. At first, perhaps, we are impressed by seeing at one glance all stages of growth and decay; but the dead soon becomes more conspicuous than the living, and this depresses instead of stimulating. In forests thus left in their natural state, thick growth alternates with clearing, tall trees with mere thicket, hoary senility with vigorous youth. Mouldering trees stand or lean, hang or lie everywhere. From the remains of fallen stems young shoots sprout; gigantic corpses bar the way within the thickets. Willows and aspens, which, with the birch, are the most abundant foliage-trees of Western Siberia, appear at times in irreproachable perfection, and at times as if they had been persistently hindered from full growth. Stems thicker than a man’s waist bear tangled crowns of small size, on which, year after year, fresh twigs break forth without being able to grow into branches; other apparently aged trees remain not more than bushes; and others, broken across the middle, have their split, cracked, and twisted upper parts connected to the trunk only by the splintered bark. Rarely does one get a complete picture; everything looks as if it were going to ruin, and could advance only in decay.

Yet this sketch is not true of all the woods in this vast region; there are indeed woodlands, especially in the south of the zone, on which the eye rests with satisfaction. Locality, situation, soil, and other conditions are sometimes alike propitious and combine to produce pleasing results. The growth of the individual trees becomes vigorous, and the general composition of the wood changes; the undergrowth, which is luxuriant everywhere, becomes diversified in the most unexpected manner. Gladly one welcomes each new species of tree or bush which reduces the marked poverty of species in these forests, but even from the richest tracts many trees are awanting which we rarely miss in Europe at the same latitude. It must be confessed that the forests of Siberia are uniform and monotonous, like the steppes, and like the tundra.

In the river-valleys of the forest zone the uniformity is perhaps most conspicuous. Here the willows predominate, forming often extensive woods by the banks and on the islands, almost to the complete exclusion of other trees. Over wide stretches willows alone form the woods of the valley, and in many places the trees rise to a stately height, yet even then without often gaining in impressiveness or charm. For the isolated willow-tree is not more, but rather less picturesque than the willow bushes; its crown is always thin and irregular, it is not close-set but loose and open, in fact almost scraggy. On frequent repetition it becomes wearisome. When the willows stand, as is usual, close beside one another, they form a dense thicket, and then, even more than the isolated tree, they lack character, for all the stems rise like posts and all the crowns fuse into a close, straight-contoured mass of foliage, suggestive of a clipped hedge, in which the individual trees are entirely merged. As pleasing additions to such monotonous woods we welcome the sprinkling of poplars, the silver poplar in the south, the aspen in the north, both of them giving some animation to the willows. In the valley of the stream too, but only in those places which are not subject to regularly-recurring floods, the birch appears in addition to the trees already noticed; indeed birch-covered tracts occur with some constancy as connecting links between the willow-woods and the pine-forests. But it is only in the south of the zone that the birch attains its full size and vigour; it is as unresisting a victim to the flames as the most resinous pine, and is therefore incapable of greatly affecting the general aspect of the forest. More or less unmixed birch woods bound the forest zone to the south, and sometimes intrude far into the steppes, yet it is but rarely that they form thick, compact, well-established stretches of timber; and they are, when one sets foot in them, disappointing.

On the other hand, the pine-forests which cover all the regions between the river-courses often fascinate and satisfy the traveller from the west. If the tundra has not gained upon them or begun to make its desolating mark, they consist in the main of vigorous pines and Norway spruce firs, the pichta or Siberian silver fir, the cembra pine, and more rarely larches. Among these there are aspens and willows, with occasional mountain-ash and bird-cherry, while birches often appear in as great vigour as in woods which consist exclusively of this accommodating tree. The pichta and the cembra pine are the characteristic trees of all West Siberian pine-forests, and vie with one another in beauty and vigour of growth. The pichta is a particularly beautiful tree. Nearly related to our silver fir, and representing it in all East Russian and West Siberian woodlands, even from a distance it catches the eye, standing out impressively from among all the other conifers. From the silver fir and from the Norway spruce fir the pichta is distinguished by the stateliness of its slender conical crown and by the rich, delicate, bright green needles. Almost always it overtops the other trees of the forest; usually, indeed, the topmost third is above the crowns of its neighbours, thus effectively breaking the sky-line of the forest and giving an individual character to certain regions. The cembra or stone pine, which flourishes especially in the south of the forest zone, though it also occurs far to the north, has round, smooth, usually compact tops which contrast well with those of the other pines and firs; and it also contributes not a little to the external adornment of the forest, towards making it seem more attractive than it is. Pines and spruce firs are nowhere absent, but they do not flourish everywhere as they do in the mountains of Central Germany; towards the north they sink rapidly into crippled senility. And so is it also with the larches, whose true home is Siberia; it is only in the south of the forest zone, especially on the mountains, that they attain the stately height of those in our country.

The above-named species include almost all those which occur regularly in the woodlands of Western Siberia. There seems to be a complete absence of oak and beech, elm and ash, lime and maple, silver fir and yew, hornbeam and black poplar. On the other hand, there are many kinds of bushes and shrubs in abundance everywhere. Even in the north the undergrowth of the forests is surprisingly rich and luxuriant. Currants and raspberries flourish to a latitude of 58°, a species of woodbine occurs up to 67°; juniper, white alder, sallow, crowberry, bilberry, cranberry, and cloudberries increase rather than decrease as one goes north; and even on the margins of the tundra, where dwarf-birches and marsh-andromedas, mosses, and cowberries insinuate themselves into the interior of the woods, the ground is still everywhere thickly covered, for the mosses thrive the more luxuriantly the poorer the woods become. The steppes also contribute to enrich the woods, for in the south of the forest zone, not only most of the steppe-bushes and shrubs, but also various herbs and flowers, enter or fringe the forest. Thus certain wooded stretches of this border-land become natural parks, which in spring and early summer display a surprising splendour of blossom.

As an instance of a forest glorious in such charms, I may mention that region known as “Taiga,” which lies between the towns Schlangenberg and Salain, in the domain of Altai. In the broad tract which this beautiful forest covers there is a most pleasing succession of long ridges and rounded hills, valleys, troughs, and basins. One hill rises beyond and above another, and everywhere one sees a sky-line of forest. Pines and pichta firs, aspen and willow, mountain-ash and bird-cherry, are in the majority among the high trees, and are mingled in most pleasing contrasts of bright and dark colour, of light and shade. The soft lines of the foliage trees are pleasingly broken by the conical summits of the pichta firs which overtop them. The two species of Siberian pea-tree, guelder-rose and woodbine, wild rose and currant are combined in the brightly blooming undergrowth; Umbellifers as tall as a man, especially hemlock; spiræa; ferns such as maidenhair, larkspur and foxglove, bluebell and hellebore all shooting up in unparalleled luxuriance, weave a gay carpet, from which the wild hops climb and twine up to the tall trees. It is as if the art of the landscape gardener had been intelligently exercised, as if man had fashioned the whole with an eye to scenic effect.

In the south, the forests show their greatest beauty in spring, in the north, in autumn. By the first days of September the leaves of the foliage trees begin to turn yellow here, and by the middle of the month the north Siberian forest is more brilliant than any of ours. From the darkest green to the most flaming red, through green and light green, light yellow and orange yellow, pale red and carmine, all the shades of colour are represented. The dark Norway spruce firs and pichta firs are followed by the cembra pines and larches; and next in order come the few birches which are not yet yellowed. The white alders display all gradations from dark to light green and to greenish yellow; the aspen leaves are bright cinnabar red, the mountain-ash and the bird-cherry are carmine. So rich and yet so harmonious is the mingling of all these colours that sense and sentiment are satisfied to the full.

Such are the pictures which the woodlands of Western Siberia display to the traveller. But all the sketches we have attempted to give have been taken from within a narrow fringe. To penetrate further into the primeval forests, in summer at least, seems to the western traveller absolutely impossible. On the slopes of the mountains he is hindered by thickets and masses of débris, on highland and plain alike by prostrate trees and a tangle of bushes, in the hollows and valleys by standing and flowing water, by brooks and swamps. Wide-spread talus from the rocks, blocks and boulders rolled into heaps and layers form barriers on all the hills; lichens and mosses form a web over the rocks, and treacherously conceal the numerous gaps and clefts between them; a young undergrowth is rooted between and upon the old possessors of the soil; and the old trees as well as the young increase the risk of attempting to traverse these regions. On the low ground the obstacles which the forests present are hardly less formidable. Literally impenetrable thickets such as exist in the virgin forests of equatorial countries there are none, but there are obstacles enough. The prostrated trunks are all the more troublesome because most of them lie, not on the untrodden path, but at an inconvenient height above it; they are turnpikes in the most unpleasant sense of the word. Sometimes it is possible to climb over them or to creep under them; but equally often neither is possible, and one is forced to make a circuit, which is the more unwelcome, since, without constant reference to the compass, it is only too easy to stray from the intended direction. Real clearings are met with but rarely, and if one tries to walk across them, deep holes and pools full of mud and decayed débris soon show that here also the greatest caution is necessary. If the traveller trusts to one of the many cattle-tracks, which, in the south of the forest-zone, lead from every village to the forest, and penetrate into it for some distance, even then sooner or later he finds himself at fault. It is impossible to tell, or even to guess, whither such a path leads, for it intersects hundreds of others, and runs through tangled brushwood, through tall grass concealing unpleasant débris of trees, through moss and marsh; in short, they are not paths for human foot. Thus, though there are not everywhere insuperable obstacles, one meets everywhere and continuously with hindrances so numerous and so vexatious, that even where the plague of mosquitoes is not intolerable, the traveller is apt to return much sooner than he had intended. Only in winter, when hard frost has covered all the pools, bogs, and swamps with a trustworthy crust, when deep snow has smoothed off most of the roughnesses, and is itself coated with a hard layer of ice, only then are the forests accessible to the hunter equipped with snow-shoes, and accompanied by weather-hardened dogs; only then can even the natives think of making long expeditions.

Siberian forests are dumb and dead, “dead to the point of starvation”, as Middendorf most justly says. The silence which reigns within them is a positive torture. When the pairing of the black-cock is past one may hear the song of the fieldfare and the black-throated thrush, the warbling of the white-throat, the linnet, and the pine grosbeak, the melody of the wood-wren, and the call of the cuckoo, but hardly ever all these voices at once. The trilling call of the greenshank and redshank becomes a song, the chattering of the magpie gains a new charm, even the cawing of the hooded crow and the raven seem cheerful, and the call of a woodpecker or a titmouse most refreshing. The silence expresses the desolateness of the woods. He who hopes to be able to lead in them a joyous sportsman’s life will be bitterly disappointed. Doubtless all the immense woods of this region have more tenants, especially birds and mammals, than we are at first inclined to believe, but these animals are so unequally distributed over the immeasurable area, and probably also wander so widely, that we can arrive at no standard for estimating their numbers. Miles and miles are, or appear to be for a time at least, so lifeless and desolate that naturalist and sportsman alike are almost driven to despair, their expectations are so continually disappointed. All the reports of even experienced observers who have sojourned there leave one still in the dark. Districts which seem to combine all the conditions necessary for the vigorous and comfortable life of certain species of animals, shelter, to all appearance, not a single pair, not even a male, naturally fond of roving. In such woods, far from human settlements, and to some extent beyond the limits of human traffic, one cannot but hope at length to fall in with the species which should frequent such places, but the hope is as fallacious as the supposition that one is more likely to meet with them in the heart of the forest than on its outskirts. The fact is that the regions under man’s influence, which he has modified, and to some extent cultivated, seem often to exhibit a more abundant and diverse life than the interior of the forest-wilderness. Wherever man has founded stable settlements, rooted out trees, and laid out fields and pasture-lands, there gradually arises a greater diversity of animal life than is to be seen in the vast untouched regions which remain in their original monotony. It seems as if many animals find suitable localities for settlement only after the ground is brought under cultivation. Of course the fact that certain animals are more abundant in the neighbourhood of man, where they are ruthlessly hunted, than they are in the inaccessible forest, where danger scarce threatens them, implies a gradual reinforcement from without. At certain seasons at least there must be migrations of more or less considerable extent, and in these most of the West Siberian animals take part. All the observations hitherto made corroborate this view.

The only stationary animals, in the usual sense of the word, seem to be certain mountain species and those which hibernate in caves and holes; all the rest migrate more or less regularly. At the pairing and nesting time all the West Siberian animals segregate themselves, except those which are gregarious during the breeding season. Later on, the parents and their young combine with their fellows in herds or flocks, which, impelled by the need for more readily obtainable food, and perhaps also driven off by the plague of mosquitoes, set out on their wanderings together. Localities rich in fodder attract the herbivorous creatures, which are the first to arrive, but on their heels come others, and finally their enemies. Thus certain parts of the woodland are depopulated and others are peopled, and there occur actual blocks in the migratory stream, which must be the more striking in contrast to the usual desolateness and emptiness of the forest. The scenes of old conflagrations are favourite rendezvous, for, on the fertilized soil, berry-bearing bushes of various sorts have sprung up and attained luxuriant growth. Here, in autumn, the Siberian herbivores find a rich harvest, and not only they, but wolves and foxes, martens and gluttons, sables and bears, primarily attracted by the collected herds, may be seen banqueting, devouring the berries with evident pleasure. The different animals thus brought together seem to remain for a time in a certain correlation. The herbivores, as observant sportsmen have noticed, keep with unmistakable constancy to the berries; and the carnivores follow closely in their tracks.

These migrations explain how it is that during certain years some of the woods are filled with all kinds of beasts of the chase, while during other years they are entirely forsaken. The traveller from the west, who journeys in late winter or early spring in Western Siberia, beholds with astonishment a flock of three to five hundred black-game rise in crowded flight from the highway through the forest, and learns with not less astonishment a little later that the same or even more favourable woods are but sparsely stocked with these birds. In summer he searches in the most suitable localities for the hazel-grouse, and is discouraged because his search is continually futile; in autumn he is pleasantly surprised to see, in the same places, abundance of the same game.

So peculiar are the conditions due to the monotonous uniformity of wide stretches, that the huntsman who will make sure of his booty must be very familiar with them; indeed, even the most skilful and experienced sportsman is always and everywhere in the measureless forests at the mercy of chance. Whatever be the game he pursues, he never can predict where he will find it. Yesterday the goddess of the chase was kind to extravagance; to-day she refuses him every aid. There is no lack of game, but the huntsman who had to live on what he shot would starve. A sportsman’s life, such as is possible in other latitudes, is inconceivable in Western Siberia; the profit to be derived from the forest chase is inconsiderable. Some animals, for example the beaver, seem already to have been exterminated; and others, especially the much-prized sable, have withdrawn from the inhabited districts into the interior of the forest. Everywhere in Siberia one hears the common complaint, that game becomes scarcer every year; and it is certain that from one decennium to another the diminution is perceptible. For this man is not wholly responsible; the forest-fires and the devastating epidemics which now and then break out are probably as much, if not more, to blame. At the same time, no Siberian ever realizes that a temporary sparing of the game is the first condition of its preservation. Sportsman-like hunting is unknown; the most varied means are used to kill as many animals as possible. Gun and rifle are mere accessories; pitfalls and nets, spring-guns and poison are the most important agents employed by natives and immigrants alike.

“Game” to the Siberian means every animal which he can in any way use after its death, the elk and the flying squirrel, the tiger and the weasel, the capercaillie and the magpie. What the superstition of one race spares falls as a booty to the other; animals whose flesh the Russians despise are delicacies to the Mongolian palate. Ostiaks and Samoyedes take young foxes, martens, bears, owls, swans, geese, and other creatures, treat them tenderly as long as they are young, care for them sedulously until the fur or plumage is fully developed, and then kill them, eating the flesh and selling the skin. The number of skins brought from Siberia to the markets there and in Europe is computed in millions: the number used in the country itself is much smaller, but still very considerable. The quantity of furred, and especially of feathered game, which is transported to a distance in a frozen state, also mounts up to many hundreds of thousands. Along with the furs of mammals the skins of certain birds are at present much exported, especially those of swans, geese, gulls, grebes, and magpies, which, like the furs, are used in making muffs, collars, and hat trimmings. A single merchant in the unimportant town of Tjukalinsk passes through his hands every year thirty thousand plover-skins, ten thousand swan-skins, and about a hundred thousand magpies; and some years ago his sale was much larger. That the total traffic in skins must involve a yearly diminution of the animals is certain; and that only the inaccessibility of the wildernesses of forest and water preserves the affected species from utter destruction will be plain to everyone who knows the unsparing hand of the Siberian huntsman.

Although it is plain from what we have said that the Siberian’s conception of game is a very wide one, the animals looked upon as worthy of hunting are really those which we ourselves regard as furred and feathered game, or would so regard if they occurred in Germany. In our sense of the term, the game of the forest girdle includes the Maral stag and the roe-deer, the elk and the reindeer, the wolf, the fox, the Arctic fox, the lynx and the bear, the Arctic hare, the squirrel, the striped and flying squirrel, but above all, the martens, viz., sable, pine-marten and stone-marten, pole-cat, kolonok, ermine, weasel, glutton, and otter; besides the capercaillie, black-grouse, and hazel-grouse. In the south must be added the tiger, which now and then prowls within this region, the ounce, the musk-deer, and the wild boar of the mountain forest; while the north also yields the willow grouse, occasionally found at least on the outskirts of the forest. These animals everyone hunts, and the more civilized do so in a regular, if not always sportsmanlike, fashion; for most of them ingenious and effective snares are also laid.

Of the latter the much-used “fall-trap” is most worthy of notice. Its arrangement is as follows:--Across clear spaces in the forest, especially those which afford a clear view, a low and very inconspicuous fence is stretched, and in the middle of this an opening is left, or there may be two or three if the fence be long. Each opening is laterally bounded by two firm stakes which bear a cross-beam above, and are meant to guide the falling beam, which consists of two long, moderately thick tree-stems, bound side by side. A long lever rests on the cross-beam, on its short arm the falling beam is suspended, while a cord from the long arm forms the connection with a peg-arrangement. The latter is contrived as follows. A short stick, forked at one end and pointed at the other, is fixed with the fork against a notch in one of the stakes, and with its pointed end fastened against another longer peg whose forked end rests lightly on the other stake. The two pegs keep one another in position, but on the slightest pressure they fall asunder. When the trap is set, the peg arrangement which corresponds to the trigger is covered with numerous light, dry twigs, not so much to conceal it, as to form a larger surface of possible contact. When an animal, even a small bird, steps upon the twigs, the two pegs fall asunder, and the beam drops, killing the animal under it. If it be set for a beast of prey, bait is laid beside the triggers; all other kinds of game are simply guided to the trap by the direction of the fence. In many woods all the haunts, paths, and clear spaces are beset with these traps in hundreds and thousands, so that the huntsman is often compensated by abundant booty for the slight trouble which it takes to arrange his effective apparatus. Grouse, hares, squirrels, and ermine are the commonest victims; polecat, pine-marten, and sable, the rarest. Gluttons also and wolves often lose their lives, but the survivors learn like dogs, and anxiously avoid the set traps, though neither is at all afraid to steal or gnaw at and thus destroy the booty caught in one which has sprung.