be in the wilds of Mongolia, on the Cossack steppe, or on the Afghan frontier. Outside this little oasis of primitive civilization nature runs wild. It is surrounded by forest, traversed only by the little tracks that lead from one Siberian's hut to the other. Occasional glimpses can be had through an opening in the forest of some weird conical mountain, or some jagged peak, covered with debris of boulders. Great rivers, broad and rapid, run through the dense jungles of spruce and poplar which cling to their banks. Along these rivers the hardy Siberian pioneers have pushed their way, exploring step by step each year in their poplar "dug-outs." Inside the forest the denseness of the vegetation is phenomenal, and the growth of moss and fern which covers the ground and grows in profusion upon the trees reminds the traveller of the tropics. Everything is saturated with moisture, and the atmosphere is stifling in its humidity. Dank and dripping vegetation, masses of rotten moss and timber, give everything the appearance of the bottom of a well. Moreover, there is far less sign of life than in the beautiful pine and larch forests which border the cultivated lands of Southern Siberia, such as I have described in the last chapter. An oppressive silence fiUs the air instead. Now and then there is a mysterious hoot overhead of some unseen bird in the tops of the spruces. Like a ventriloquist, it sounds far away one minute, and just above your head the next. A creepy feeling comes over one each time it hoots, for it seems to be the evil spirit of the forest mocking at the traveller. But it is only a great spotted cuckoo, a denizen of the sub-Arctic regions. This indeed is a land of mystery, a mystery which breeds super-
