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132
SIBERIA
inclosed the pasture ground of the village that we were approaching. As we dashed, with a wild whoop from our driver, through the open gateway, we noticed beside it a
HUTS OF VILLAGE GATE-KEEPERS.
curious half-underground hut, roofed partly with bushes and partly with sods, out of which, as we passed, came the village gate-keeper—a dirty, forlorn-looking old man with inflamed eyes and a long white beard, who reminded me of Rip Van Winkle after his twenty years' sleep. While
