“I’m not romantic, but, upon my word,
  There are some moments when one can’t help feeling
  As if his heart’s chords were so strongly stirred
  By things around him, that ’tis vain concealing
  A little music in his soul still lingers,
  Whene’er the keys are touched by Nature’s fingers.”

I was just delivering the above quotation in impassioned style, when Dodd, who never allowed his enthusiasm for the beauties of nature to interfere with a proper regard for the welfare of his stomach, emerged from the tent, and, with a mock solemn apology for interrupting my soliloquy, said that if I could bring my mind down to the contemplation of material things he would inform me that breakfast was ready, and begged to suggest that the little music in my soul be allowed to “linger,” since it could do so with less detriment than the said breakfast.  The force of this suggestion, seconded as it was by a savoury odour from the interior of the tent, could not be denied.  I went, but still continued between the spoonfuls of hot soup to “rave,” as Dodd expressed it, about the scenery.  After breakfast the tent was struck, camp equipage packed up, and taking seats in the stern-sheets of our whale-boat we pushed off and resumed our slow ascent of the river.

The vegetation everywhere, untouched as yet by the autumn frosts, seemed to have an almost tropical luxuriance.  High wild grass, mingled with varicoloured flowers, extended to the very river’s brink; Alpine roses and cinquefoil grew in dense thickets along the bank, and dropped their pink and yellow petals like fairy boats upon the surface of the clear still water; yellow columbine drooped low over the river, to see its graceful image mirrored beside that of the majestic volcano; and strange black Kamchatkan lilies, with downcast looks, stood here and there in sad loneliness, mourning in funeral garb some unknown flowery bereavement.

Nor was animal life wanting to complete the picture.  Wild ducks, with long outstretched necks, shot past us, continually in their swift level flight, uttering hoarse quacks of curiosity and apprehension; the honking of geese came to us, softened by distance, from the higher slopes of the mountains; and now and then a magnificent eagle, startled from his solitary watch on some jutting rock, expanded his broad-barred wings, launched himself into air, and soared upward in ever-widening circles until he became a mere moving speck against the white snowy crater of the Avachinski volcano.  Never had I seen a picture of such wild primitive loneliness as that presented by this beautiful fertile valley, encircled by smoking volcanoes and snow-covered mountains, yet green as the Vale of Tempe, teeming with animal and vegetable life, yet solitary, uninhabited by man, and apparently unknown.  About noon the barking of dogs announced our approach to a settlement, and turning an abrupt bend in the river we came in sight of the Kamchadal village of Okuta (o-koo’-tah).