and sometimes they form a continuous line of a mile or more.  Those going southward are principally laden with logs of wood from the valley of the Tolla, about two hundred miles from the Siberian frontier.  The logs are about six or seven feet long, and their principal use is to be cut into Chinese coffins.  Many a gentleman of Pekin has been stowed in a coffin whose wood grew in the middle of Mongolia; and possibly when our relations with the empire become more intimate, we shall supply the Chinese coffin market from the fine forests of our Pacific coast.

CHAPTER XXXII.

North of Kalgan the native habitations are scattered irregularly over the country wherever good water and grass abound.  The Mongols are generally nomadic, and consult the interest of their flocks and herds in their movements.  In summer they resort to the table-land, and stay wherever fancy or convenience dictates; in winter they prefer the valleys where they are partially sheltered from the sharp winds, and find forage for their stock.

The desert is not altogether a desert; it has a great deal of sand and general desolation to the day’s ride, but is far from being a forsaken region where a wolf could not make a living.  Antelopes abound, and are often seen in large droves as upon our Western plains; grouse will afford frequent breakfasts to the traveler if he takes the trouble to shoot them; there are wild geese, ducks, and curlew in the ponds and marshes; and taken for all in all, the country might be much worse than it is—­which is bad enough.

The flat or undulating country is, of course, monotonous.  Sunset and sunrise are not altogether unlike those events on the ocean, and if a traveler wishes to feel himself quite at sea, he has only to wander off and lose his camp or caravan.  The natives make nothing of straying out of sight, and seem to possess the instincts which have been often noted in the American Indian.  Without landmarks or other objects to guide them, they rarely mistake their position, even at night, and can estimate the extent of a day’s journey with surprising accuracy.  Where a stranger can see no difference between one square mile of desert and a thousand others, the Mongol can distinguish it from all the rest, though he may not be able to explain why.  Perception is closely allied to instinct, and as fast as we are developed and educated the more we trust to acquired knowledge and the less to the unaided senses.

Of course it is quite easy for a stranger to be lost in the Mongolian desert beyond all hope of finding his way again, unless some one comes to his aid.  A Russian gentleman told me his experience in getting lost there several years ago.  “I used,” said he, “to have a fondness for pursuing game whenever we sighted any, which was pretty often, and as I had a couple of hardy ponies, I did a great deal of chasing.  One afternoon I saw a fine drove of antelopes, and set out in pursuit of them.  The chase led me further than I expected:  the game was shy, and I could not get near enough for a good shot; after a long pursuit I gave up, and concluded to return to the road.  Just as I abandoned the chase the sun was setting.  My notion of the direction I ought to go was not entirely clear, as I had followed a very tortuous course in pursuing the antelopes.