From North Pole to Equator: Studies of Wild Life and Scenes in Many Lands

by Alfred Edmund Brehm

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.[28]

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.[29] 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,”[30] 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.

Fig. 19.—Reindeer Flocking to Drink.

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,[31] 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.[32] 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.

Fig. 20.—Elk and Black-cock in a Siberian Forest.

Besides the “fall-trap”, the Ostiaks and Samoyedes are fond of using a spring-gun arrangement, fitted with bow and arrow or automatic cross-bow. As the bow is very strong and the arrow well made, the murderous contrivance is very effective, and exceedingly dangerous to the inattentive explorer. Ingenious arrangements hold the bow stretched, and keep it and the arrow in position; a wooden clasp relaxes the bow whenever a line stretched across the animal’s run is touched. In order to direct the arrow so that it may pierce the heart of the victim, the ingenious people use a pillar-like perforated target the size of the desired booty. When this is placed on the run it has the perforation at the precise level of the beast’s heart, and according to the distance between the heart and the collar-bone, the hunters determine the distance between the mark and the trigger. As all the natives are well acquainted with the tracks of various kinds of game, the spring-gun only fails when a creature comes along entirely different in size from that for which the arrow was destined. Usually they are set for foxes, and with hardly less success for wolves, or even for elk and reindeer, while the automatic cross-bow is arranged for smaller game, especially ermine and squirrels. For both of these, bait is spread which can only be got at when the animal creeps through a narrow hole in front of the lower part of the set cross-bow. In so doing the creature touches a trigger, and is forthwith crushed by a broad, chisel-like arrow which the cross-bow shoots forcibly down on its appointed course.

As an important addition to these old-fashioned contrivances, fire-arms have recently come more and more into vogue among the natives of Western Siberia, but they do not displace the bow and arrow. Powder and bullets are dear, and the people prefer small-bored matchlocks and flint-locks, which are exceedingly bad; but they use these defective weapons with remarkable skill. A fork fastened in front to the barrel, and used as a rest, is to be seen on every gun, and even the educated sportsmen use it as indispensable to the effective use of the matchlock. Fowling-pieces are used by the officials and well-to-do townsfolk, but not by the natives, who have to make a profit by the chase, and to measure their powder, as it were, by the grain. They fill a small horn with the expensive material, wind a leaden wire of the diameter of their bore twice or thrice round their waists, and thus equipped set out on the chase. The leaden wire serves for making bullets, which are not cast but simply cut, or, even more simply, bitten off the wire; the resulting peg-like shot is laid without any wad directly on the powder, and thus the gun is loaded. Of course the native huntsmen do not shoot from a distance except when forced to, but to the height of medium-sized trees their aim is so sure that they take the eye of the sable or squirrel for their mark and seldom miss it.

The various species of grouse are more generally hunted than any other creatures, and are caught and killed in hundreds of thousands. During the pairing season capercaillie and black-grouse are almost everywhere left unmolested. The sportsman’s joy as we know it when the pairing grouse take wing can scarcely be experienced in Siberia, owing to the inaccessibility of the woodland; not even for the pairing black-grouse does one rise betimes in May; the hazel-grouse alone is sought after by mimicking his love-call. But who would put himself to so much trouble and discomfort for so uncertain a prize? Only in autumn and winter does the chase reward the Siberian as he desires and expects; when the young birds change their plumage, when the coveys unite in large flocks, and when these wander through the forest in search of berries, then is the huntsman’s opportunity. Whoever is not afraid of discomforts of all kinds pursues the migrating flocks with his dogs—usually pitiable helpers—and generally returns with rich booty; those who know how to use snow-shoes hunt capercaillie and black-game even in winter. After the first heavy snowfall the migrations are stopped, and each flock seeks out a resting-place which promises abundant food for a few days at least. In the beginning of winter the still ungathered cranberries afford sufficient food, and afterwards the juniper berries; when both these supplies are exhausted the easily satisfied birds take to the leaves of larch, and finally of pine and fir, and to the young cones of all these conifers. As long as possible they continue their wanderings on foot, and often cover seven or eight miles in a day; occasionally they come within a few hundred paces of a settlement, and leave such distinct footprints on the fresh snow that the huntsman is bound to discover them. When they are forced to take to a diet of pine-needles, the sportsman is able to track them, at first by their droppings, and eventually by their sleeping-places. For the Siberian capercaillie and black-game differ in habit from their relatives in Germany, and make more or less deep burrows, usually reaching from the surface of the snow down to the ground. They leave these in the morning, or when danger threatens, breaking with beating wings through the coverlet of snow. These shelters are, therefore, readily recognizable, and as they also afford sure indication of the night on which they were used, they are most valuable guides to the experienced sportsman. Amid continuous snowfall the birds sometimes remain beneath the snow till towards mid-day, and then, after they have taken to the trees and are eating, they will allow the huntsman to come within range, for they are not scared by the barking of his dogs, and, while watching the cur at the foot of the tree, often overlook the marksman. The first condition of success in such hunting is, that the snow have not only smoothed off most of the roughness of the ground, and thus removed the greatest obstacles to progress, but that it be sufficiently firm to afford the necessary resistance to the huntsman’s snow-shoes.

With incomparably greater comfort, and usually with more success, the black-grouse may be hunted by means of the decoy or bulban. When using this the huntsman sets out before dawn in autumn, hides in the forest in a previously-prepared or rapidly-constructed hut, and there fixes up the bulban. This is a stuffed decoy-bird or one fashioned of wood and tow, with black, white, and red cloth at appropriate places, a deceptive imitation of the living bird. It is perched by means of a pole on the highest of the surrounding trees, with its head to the wind, and while the sportsman hides in the hut, men and dogs drive the adjacent forest. All the young black-game, or all which have not learned wisdom from previous experience, fly, when disturbed, to the bulban, which, to all appearance, is a fellow-bird sitting in reassuring security. They crowd on to the same tree, and the sportsman beneath, equipped with a small-bored and but slightly noisy rifle, or sometimes also with a fowling-piece, often has the pick of dozens of silly birds. In woods which are undisturbed throughout the summer, the black-grouse are so heedless of the slight report of the rifle, that after a bird has fallen dead from the tree the others do not fly away, but stretching their necks gaze at their fallen comrade, and wait quietly until the marksman has reloaded and claimed a second or a third victim. So abundant are these birds that the assertion that a single sportsman may, in the course of the morning, bring down twenty or more without leaving his hut is perfectly credible.

Not less effective than the decoying of black-game, fascinating moreover, and satisfactory to every sportsman, is the hunting of the hazel-grouse as practised in Siberia. No special equipment of any kind is required, not even trained dogs—useful auxiliaries none the less—are indispensable. The hazel-grouse is very abundant in all suitable parts of the West Siberian forests, perhaps more abundant than the capercaillie and black-grouse, but it is so noiseless that one may often miss it although there are numerous coveys in the wood. It never forms such large flocks as its relatives, nor does it undertake such long migrations, but it is more uniformly distributed throughout the wide forest-wilderness, and the sportsman who knows its ways gets more readily within shot of it than in the case of any other bird of the woods. During spring and summer it seems to the inexperienced to have wholly disappeared; but in autumn it occurs everywhere, even in those places where, a few months before, it might have been sought for in vain. It is as fond of berries as are its relatives, and to secure these it visits the larger clearings, which, in spring and summer, it seems to avoid. But even there it knows how to escape observation. It lies much more closely than capercaillie or black-cock, and, without anxiously concealing itself on the approach of an intruder, remains as long as possible motionless, only rising when the enemy is almost touching it. Even then its flight is so noiseless and inconspicuous that one may readily fail to hear or see it; even a partridge or a wood-cock makes more noise than this charming bird, of whose flight only a gentle whirring is perceptible. When startled, it usually, though by no means always, flies to the nearest fir-tree and alights on the first convenient branch, but there it sits so quietly that it is once more as inconspicuous as it was on the ground. The sportsman often tries for a long time in vain to discover the bird’s whereabouts, and when he has finally decided that it has secretly flown off, he is suddenly nonplussed by a start or movement which betrays its presence on the very branch on which he had looked for it repeatedly. The cleverness with which all birds of this sort hide themselves from observation has reached a rare perfection in the hazel-grouse. For its haunts it prefers the boggy and mossy parts of the forest, which abound in bilberries and cranberries and are surrounded by old dead trees and young growths. Here it knows so skilfully how to use the cover, that one rarely perceives it until it has flown for security to one of the lifeless giants. When it does not move, it appears most deceptively like a knot on the tree, and it behaves as if it knew that it could trust to the colour-resemblance between its plumage and its surroundings. Nevertheless, whenever it shows itself freely it keeps looking anxiously all round, and, if it suspects danger, leaves its perch as silently as it gained it. Hazel-grouse shooting is a true pleasure to the sportsman. He may expect the bird almost everywhere in the forest, and can never tell how it will show itself; he must usually dispense with all auxiliaries, but his success is not prejudiced by awkward companions; and he is even more richly rewarded by the continuous tension and pleasurable excitement than by the exquisite dish afforded by this best-flavoured of game-birds.

Compared with the importance of game-birds to the sportsman, and indeed to the community generally, the chase and exploitation of big game in West Siberia must seem inconsiderable. The four species of stag found in this region are for various, but equally unsatisfactory reasons, much less appreciated than they deserve. They are treated in a manner which, if not actually barbarous, seems to us disagreeable or even repulsive. This is especially true in regard to the Maral stag. This splendid creature, according to some naturalists a large-sized red-deer, according to others a nearly related species with larger body and stronger antlers, lives in all the southern forests, especially on the mountains, and is probably by no means so rare as the untiring lust for the chase on the part of both natives and strangers has made it seem. For a strange reason the said lust for the chase endangers this stag most seriously just at the time when he needs most to be spared. For he is hunted by all the North Asiatic hunters not for his flesh nor his skin, nor for his fully-branched head, but solely and wholly for the growing, incompletely tined, and still velvety antlers.[33] Out of this the Chinese physicians or quacks prepare a specific, which is greatly sought after by rich debilitated Celestials, and is sold for its weight in gold. It is esteemed as a stimulant of rare virtue, and believed to be replaceable by no other. Most sought after are the half-branched, six-tined antlers, still richly filled with blood; for these the price is from £10 to £15, while completely formed antlers, with twelve or fourteen tines, and bared of their velvet, may be bought for six to twelve shillings. Not only the Mongols of North and Central Asia, but also the Siberians of Russian origin, exert themselves to procure these valuable antlers, which, when obtained in the proper condition, are despatched as quickly as possible, especially by post, to Kiachta, whence, through special merchants, thousands are sent every year to China without satisfying the demand. Siberian peasants also keep the Maral stag in captivity for the sole purpose of cutting off the blood-charged antlers at the proper time and selling them. Now, since all stags when growing their antlers avoid the dense thickets, and are less wary than at other seasons, and as the one- and two-year-old stags are as little spared as those with crown antlers, it is obvious that the numerical strength of the race must be notably impoverished, and that the breeding must also be appreciably affected. The flesh and the skin obtained in the slaughter are but rarely taken into consideration; if it would involve any trouble to remove the carcase, it is usually left without reluctance to the wolves and foxes.

Fig. 21.—The Maral Stag.

As the Maral stag excels ours, so is it with the Siberian or large roe-deer, which differs from ours in its larger growth and by the high antlers with weakly developed burrs. Its specific independence, however, is still a subject of controversy among taxonomists. In Siberia it prefers the stretches of woodland which have begun to recover from the effects of a conflagration, and in which the pichta fir is abundant. It also frequents the fringes of the forest and small woods, and ascends the mountains to considerable heights, not unfrequently above the forest-line; it may likewise pass into the open steppes, associating on the heights with the steinbock and wild sheep, and on the plains with the antelope. According to the nature of the country, it undertakes more or less regular migrations, even without being forced to these by forest fires, and in its wanderings it will traverse wide stretches and cross broad rivers without hesitation. In certain circumstances it appears in regions in which it has not been seen for years, and from these centres it makes excursions round about. In its wanderings it usually keeps to definite roads, but is now and then forced to follow narrow paths. The rocky and precipitous river-banks of the larger streams compel it to make its way through a few cross-valleys and gorges, and this necessity is often the animal’s ruin, for the trapper rarely omits to stretch his leading-fence across these runs, and to lay his pitfalls fatally. Wolf and lynx press upon it at every season; Russians and native Siberians likewise. Like other game it is hunted unsparingly; every circumstance is utilized and every trick is tried to effect its capture. At the beginning of the thaw, when cold nights have frozen the top layer of snow into a thin crust of ice, the hunter sets off on horseback or on snow-shoes with a pack of nimble dogs; he rouses the stag with his shouts and runs it down, fatiguing it the sooner the harder the ice is, for, as the stag bounds, the crust breaks under its slender hoofs, and its ankles are cut. In spring, the hunters entice the doe by imitating the cry of the fawn, and the buck is similarly allured in the leafy season by a skilful echo of the doe’s call; in the intermediate season and later, both sexes are inveigled by special dainties; in autumn a drive is organized, or the migrating deer is pursued in boats as he swims across the streams, and is killed in the water; in early winter he is shot from the swift sledge. In fact the only method of capture which is not resorted to is that of snaring, so common a practice with knavish hunters at home; but in all probability the reason for this abstinence is simply that the spring-bow is more effective.

Fig. 22.—The Elk Hunter—A Successful Shot.

The elk[34] exists under decidedly more favourable conditions, and has a firmer footing in the struggle for existence. Its haunts and habits, its strength and power of self-defence, secure it from many, if not most pursuers. A forest animal in the full sense of the word, as much at home in swamp and bog as in thicket or wood, overcoming with equal ease all obstacles of forest and morass, assured by the nature of its diet from the scarcity of winter, it escapes more readily than any other beast of the chase from pursuit either by man or by other dangerous enemies. The latter include wolves, lynxes, bears, and gluttons; but it may be doubted whether all these beasts of prey together very seriously affect the elk. For it is as strong as it is courageous, it has in its sharp hoofs even more formidable weapons than its antlers, and it knows right well how to use both of them. It may fall victim to a bear who surprises and overcomes it; but it undoubtedly hurls a single wolf to the ground, and may even be victorious over a pack of these eternally hungry creatures. As to lynx and glutton, the old story that these are able to leap on the elk’s neck and sever the jugular vein does not seem to have been proved. Only against human weapons are the elk’s resources ineffective. But its pursuit in Siberian forests is a precarious undertaking, and is little practised except by the natives. During summer the water-loving beast is hardly to be got at; it spends the greater part of the season in the marsh, browsing by night and resting by day among the high marsh-plants in a place accessible only to itself. The juicy water-plants and their roots suit it better than the sharp sedges, and it therefore browses in the deeper parts of the bog, where it pulls the plants out of the water, dipping its uncouth head in the muddy moisture as far as the roots of its donkey-like ears. When it lifts its head it blows from its nose and mouth the mud and moisture which necessarily entered its nostrils as it grubbed, and this makes a loud snorting noise which can be heard from afar. Experienced hunters have based a peculiar trick of the chase on the elk’s method of feeding. They listen to the usually watchful animal for several nights in succession, and mark his whereabouts; thither in the daylight they quietly carry a light, shallow-water boat; by night, guided by the snorting, they row with muffled oars towards the browsing creature, whose scent and hearing are dulled by his grubbing; at close range they send a bullet through him. The clearness of the northern summer night facilitates operations, though it renders close approach more difficult; yet the sport is all the more exciting, and by eager lovers of the chase it is pursued passionately, and usually with success. On the advent of frost the elk leaves the swamps, for the brittle coat of ice hinders his movements, and hies to the drier parts of the forest until the thickly falling snow forces him to wander in search of specially favourable localities. At this season the chase of the elk, with well-trained and, above all, silent dogs, is preferred to all other sport. In its wanderings the elk does not avoid human settlements, and betraying itself by its unmistakable footprints, soon has the huntsman on its heels. Now is the time to send the dogs after it. Their duty is to keep the creature continually agog, but never to chase it. They must never attack it in the rear, nor ever come too near it, but must rather bark at it continually, and keep its attention unceasingly engrossed. When the elk sees itself thus threatened in front it stops after a short trot, looks angrily at the dogs, seems trying to make up its mind to attack them, but only in rare cases succeeds in carrying out the resolution so slowly arrived at, and thus gives the sportsmen time to get within easy range, and to take sure aim. If a small herd of elk is suddenly surprised by the dogs and driven into a narrow defile, they may be so nonplussed that several may fall before a well-handled rifle. But when old experienced elks are pursued for some time during a heavy snowfall they take the first trodden path which they come across, and trot along it whether it lead to the recesses of the forest or to the township; thus they are not unfrequently led quite close to inhabited houses, on seeing which they diverge into the woods. A hard crust of snow is not less dangerous to the elks than to the roe-deer; and then the spirited and experienced huntsmen pursue them even with boar-spears, speeding along on snow-shoes, outrunning and fatiguing the impeded animals till they can use the ancient weapons to good effect. The flesh is readily eaten both by immigrants and natives, but it has no great market value; the skin, on the other hand, finds ready sale at six to eight roubles[35] a hide, and affords the professional huntsman sufficient recompense for his trouble and exertions.

The wild reindeer belongs strictly to the tundra, but it also occurs throughout the whole extent of the forest-zone. Along the eastern slopes of the Urals it is frequent both in the depths of the forest and on the mountain heights, and the huntsmen of these parts accordingly speak with a certain emphasis of forest-reindeer and mountain-reindeer, and seem inclined to attribute different characteristics to the two kinds, though they cannot define their distinctive marks. The reindeer is less shy of populated districts than any other deer, which perhaps best explains the fact that every year among those living in freedom individuals are captured with slit ears and brand-marks. These have probably escaped from the herds of the Samoyedes and Ostiaks during the breeding season, and have wandered southwards till they met a wild stock to which they attached themselves. Once free from bondage, they very rapidly assume all the habits of wild life. But neither these escaped truants nor the wild forms are regarded by the forest-folk as of much moment among the beasts of the chase. Reindeer are indeed captured wherever, whenever, or however that may be possible; but apart from a few specially keen hunters of Russian origin only the natives pursue them with persistence and eagerness.

Excepting the Semites and the Russians, all sensible people include hares among edible game. In consequence of this exception, the variable hare of Western Siberia is hunted only by educated and unprejudiced Siberians of Russian origin, and by the natives of the North, who are uninfluenced by any laws of diet. Even the skin of the snowy hare, since it loses its fur very readily, has little value in the eyes of the huntsman, and perhaps for this reason is presented by the heathen peoples as an offering to the gods. Yet in spite of the indifference with which the forest-folk regard this rodent so highly prized by us, the hare is nowhere plentiful. Many perish in the traps; the majority are caught by wolves, foxes, and lynxes; and the severe winter, which often impels them to long migrations, thins them sadly. The hare is certainly not important among the beasts of the chase.

Among the non-edible furred beasts of the forest the first place may be given to the wolf, since it is most bitterly hated and most generally hunted. For although it is said that the direct injury which it does to man is not very considerable, or at any rate not insufferable, he misses no opportunity of destroying it. It is certain that in West Siberia wolves only exceptionally appear in large packs, and that they even more rarely venture to attack man, but it is equally certain that they do much damage to domestic animals. This is very considerable when we take into account the destruction caused by wolves among the herds of the nomads on the steppes and the tundra. There is no possibility of computing the numbers of wolves in the forest-zone. They are found everywhere and yet nowhere; to-day they fall upon the herds of a village, where there has been no trace of them for years, and to-morrow they ravage the sheepfolds somewhere else; they leave certain districts suddenly, and establish themselves in them again just as unexpectedly; here they defy their persecutors, and there precautions against them are almost superfluous.

Broad, much-used highways and settlements rich in meadows attract them, for on the former they find the carcasses of horses, and by the latter they find an easy booty in the herds which wander unhindered by any herdsman, and often stray far into the woods. But they are not absent from those parts of the forest which lie beyond the limits of traffic. Sometimes in broad daylight they are seen singly or in small packs prowling near the settlements; by night they not unfrequently pass through villages or even towns. In a single night they destroy dozens of sheep, attack horses and cattle also, and more rarely dogs (for which in other countries they show a preference). The only animals which they avoid are the courageous swine, for here and elsewhere these at once show fight, and invariably get the best of it.

Like the Russians, the Siberians hold to the superstition that the she-wolf suckling young carefully avoids ravaging in the neighbourhood of her litter, but that if she be robbed of her whelps, she avenges herself terribly, following the robber to his village home, and falling with unbounded rage upon all his herds. For fear of this revenge, every Siberian passes by any wolf-litter which he finds, and only now and then does he dare to cut the Achilles tendon of the whelps, thus laming them and keeping them near their birthplace until the time of the autumn hunt. For, as they grow up, the mother’s love is supposed to disappear, at least her thirst for revenge grows less, and the skins of the young wolves caught in autumn reward the clever foresight of the cunning peasant.

According to locality and opportunity, the methods employed in the capture of the wolf vary greatly. Pitfalls, traps, strychnine, and the spring-bows already described do good service; actual driving is seldom successful. A favourite method is to pursue the wolf with sledges, and to shoot him from the sledge. To attract the wolf within range an ingenious device is resorted to. An old, steady, or worn-out horse is yoked to a large sledge, in which four comrades—the driver, two marksmen, and a fair-sized sucking-pig—take their places. The driver, whose sole duty is to look after his horse, takes the front seat; the marksmen sit behind, and the pig lies in a bag between their feet. Towards evening the mixed company sets off along a well-beaten road to a part of the forest where during the day fresh wolf-tracks were seen. On to the track one of the hunters throws a bag stuffed with hay, and fastened to the sledge by a long line; while this trails along, the other hunter teases the young pig, and makes it squeal. Isegrim hears the complaint, and probably thinking that it comes from a young boar separated from its mother, draws near quietly and carefully, that is, as far as possible hidden from the road. He perceives the bundle trailing behind the sledge, supposes this to be the squealing pig, and, after some consideration, determines to put an end to its sufferings. With a great bound he leaps upon the course, and eagerly rushes after the sledge. What does he care for the threatening forms which it bears? Such he has often inspected close at hand, and robbed before their very eyes. Nearer and nearer he comes, gaining on the now quickened sledge; crueller tormenting makes the pig utter louder and more clamant squeals; they are maddening to the robber; just another bound, and—two rifles ring out, and the wolf rolls gasping in death.

Fig. 23.—A Siberian Method of Wolf-shooting.

Equally artful is the circular trap much used in the Ural district. At a short distance from the village a circular space about two yards in diameter is enclosed with close-set deep-sunk stakes; around this is formed a second similar circle at an interval of about a foot and a half from the first. Two specially strong posts support a solid deal door moving on firm hinges, furnished with a spring-catch, and so arranged that it opens only inwards, pressure outwards causing the spring-catch to shut. Both circles are roofed over, not thickly, indeed, but firmly, and a trapdoor in the roof admits to the inner circle. When it is perceived that the wolves are beginning to visit the village by night, the trap is set by placing a live goat in the inner enclosure and opening the door of the outer ring. The pitiful bleating of the goat, frightened by being taken from his usual surroundings, attracts Isegrim. He does not in the least like the look of the strange enclosure, but the frantic behaviour of the goat, still more terrified by the wolf’s appearance on the scene, makes him forget his habitual caution, and he begins to try to get at the welcome booty. Several times does he prowl round the outer fence, ever more quickly and eagerly, twisting and snuffing, sometimes coming quite near, and again retreating, till at last he discovers the only door by which it is possible for him to get near the goat. His appetite gets the better of his natural cunning. Still hesitating, but yet advancing, he pushes his head and body through the narrow doorway. With despairing cries the goat springs to the opposite side of the inner fence. Without further consideration or hesitation the robber follows. The goat rushes round in a circle, and the wolf does the same, with this difference, that he has to move between the two rows of stakes. Then the projecting door impedes his progress. But the victim is now so near, and apparently so sure, that the wolf dashes furiously forwards, pressing the door outwards; the spring-catch falls with a snap into its groove, and the distrustful, cautious dupe is trapped—trapped without being able to get a step nearer the tempting booty. Unable to turn round, boiling over with rage, he runs and trots and jumps, ever forwards, ever in a circle, hurrying without a pause on his endless circuit. The intelligent goat soon appreciates the situation, and though still crying and trembling, remains standing in the middle of the inner circle. The wolf also begins to see the fruitlessness of his circling, and tries to recover his freedom, tearing splinters a foot long out of the stakes with his teeth, howling with rage and fear, but all in vain. After a night of torment, the daylight appears—the wolf’s last morning. The villagers begin to move about, and voices mingle with the barking of dogs. Dark men, accompanied by noisy dogs, approach the scene of the tragedy. Motionless, like a corpse, the wolf lies; scarce a wink of his eyes betrays that there is still life in him. With furious barking the dogs press round the outer fence, but he does not move; with mocking welcome the men call to him, but he heeds not. But neither dogs nor men are deceived by his shamming death. The former, pressing between the stakes, try to get a grip of him; the latter slip the much-used horse-noose or arkan over his head. Once more the beast springs up, once more he rages on his path of torture, howling he seeks to terrify, gnashing his teeth he attempts defiance, but in vain—there is no escape from the dread noose, and in a few minutes he is throttled.

The fox is everywhere attacked, hunted, killed, and devoured, or at least hard pressed, by the wolf, and is therefore not abundant in Siberia, but neither his hostile relative nor man have as yet been able to exterminate him. In the eastern parts of the forest-zone he sometimes undertakes long migrations, following the hares or the grouse; in the west, observations on this point do not appear to be recorded. They do not complain in Siberia of the damage he does, nevertheless they hunt him eagerly, for his fur is prized by natives and Russians alike, and is always dear. It fetches an especially high price when it is of a certain much-appreciated colour. As a beast of the chase, only the sable takes higher rank. For the sake of the fox alone professional hunters undertake winter expeditions which often take them as far into the heart of the forest as the sable-hunters are wont to penetrate. Especially for it do the Ostiaks and Samoyedes set their spring-bows, and they spare no trouble in their search for the burrow where the young are hidden, not in order to kill them, but that they may rear them carefully and tenderly till they become large and strong, and gain, in their first or second winter, their beautiful fur. For that the fosterers care more than for the life of their winsome charges, and they give them over remorselessly to the fatal noose.

The Arctic fox may be included conditionally among the forest animals, but it never actually penetrates into the forest. Sometimes, however, in winter, in pursuit of hares and moor-fowl, it follows the course of the large rivers beyond the southern limits of the tundra, its true home.

The lynx, on the other hand, is a forest animal in the strictest sense of the word. But in Siberia it only occurs singly, and is very rarely captured. Its true home is in the thickest parts in the interior of the forest, and these it probably never leaves except when scarcity of food or the calls of love prompt it to wander to the outskirts. Experienced hunters of the Eastern Ural say that the lynxes not only live in the same locality as the bear, but that they remain in the neighbourhood of the bear’s winter-quarters after he has gone to sleep. They assert, moreover, that the preference the lynxes show for these winter-quarters betrays the bears, since search has only to be made where most lynx-tracks cross, and especially where there is a circular track, for that always surrounds a bear’s sleeping-place. The lynx’s habit of keeping to his old paths with almost anxious carefulness must greatly facilitate the discovery of the bear’s quarters. Moreover, it may be added that in Siberia the lynxes show themselves very fond of fresh meat, and that they possibly seek the neighbourhood of a bear in the hope of occasionally sharing his booty. For, although it may be urged that the lynx is able enough on his own account to bring down big game without any help from so doubtful a friend as the bear, and that he hunts the reindeer and the roe, and may in a short time overpower them, yet the fact remains that his booty chiefly consists of small animals, such as hares, ground-squirrels, tree-squirrels, black-cock, capercaillie, hazel-grouse, young birds, mice, and the like. Of this there is no doubt, and it explains satisfactorily why the lynx is so rare in the fringes of the forest which are accessible to man. As long as squirrels and game birds abound in the interior of the forest, the lynx has no temptation to stray from this unvisited wilderness; when his prey migrates, he is forced to follow. How much he is feared by the game birds one can discern from the fact that every wooing capercaillie or black-cock is instantaneously dumb when a lynx lets himself be heard.

Both immigrants and natives hold the hunting of the lynx to be right noble sport. This proud cat’s rarity, caution, agility, and powers of defence raise the enthusiasm of every sportsman, and both skin and flesh are of no small value. The former is preferably sent from West Siberia to China, where it fetches a good price; the latter, when roasted, is highly esteemed not only by the Mongolian peoples but also by most of the Russian settlers. The lynx is but seldom captured in the fall-traps, but he often renders them useless by walking along the beam and stepping on the lever; he is but rarely a victim to the spring-bow, and he usually leaps over the steel traps in his path. So there is only the rifle left. Only in winter can he be hunted, when the snow betrays his tracks and admits of the use of snow-shoes. The courageous dogs, having sighted their game, drive it with difficulty to a tree or bait it on the ground, but they often suffer cruelly, or may even be killed. The hunter himself runs a risk of being attacked by a furious lynx at bay.

The wild cat, which the lynx persecutes as pitilessly as the wolf does the fox, is absent from the forest-zone of West Siberia, but now and then the region is visited by the most perfect of all cats,—the tiger. Two which were killed in 1838 and 1848 at Baesk and Schlangenberg now stand stuffed in the museum of Barnaul; another, killed in the beginning of the seventies, is preserved in the school museum at Omsk. Towards the end of the sixties a tiger terrified the inhabitants of the Tschelaba district (on the European boundary of the Ural) by attacking, without provocation, a number of peasants, from whom it was only frightened off when one of the men threw his red cap in its face. In the steppe-mountains of Turkestan, and throughout the south of East Siberia, the “king of beasts”, as the Daurs call the tiger, is found everywhere and permanently in suitable localities, and from both sides it may pass, oftener than can be proved, to the western forest-zone, remaining perhaps for some time unobserved and retiring unnoticed. Yet on the whole it occurs so rarely and irregularly that we cannot do more than name it, without reckoning it among the beasts of this region.

It is far otherwise with the most precious of the furred beasts, the various species of marten. Their decrease is more lamented than that of all other beasts of the chase, but most of them are still regularly caught, if not everywhere, at any rate in certain parts of the forest region. Only the sable has in the last few decennia become really rare. Old huntsmen of the middle Ural remember having caught sable every winter in the vicinity of Tagilsk; nowadays, at this latitude of the mountain-land, only an occasional stray specimen is to be met with. A great forest fire in the central part of East Ural is said to have driven off the highly-prized and much-hunted creature. We hear the same story in the forest villages of the lower Ob, where the hunting of the sable is still pursued, and yields, for instance, at the Yelisaroff market, about a score of skins every winter.

In all the forests of West Siberia the pine-marten is notably more abundant than the sable. In the fairly extensive hunting-ground around the already-mentioned town of Tagilsk from thirty to eighty are still captured every winter. It is said that the pine-marten, much more than the sable, is associated with the squirrel, and that the two appear and disappear together. But the greedy marten is by no means content with making the beautiful squirrel its prey; indeed it kills every creature which it can master, and is an especially dangerous foe of black-cock and capercaillie. Even in summer a clever spring often enables him to capture the watchful bird; while in winter the habit the black game birds have of sleeping in holes in the snow greatly facilitates his stealthy operations. Sneaking almost noiselessly from branch to branch, he comes within springing distance of the buried bird, and springs on it from above, crushing down the snowy roof by the force of his bound, and seizing the sleeper by the neck before it has any chance to escape. The stone-marten also occurs everywhere in the mountain forests, but it is rarer than its relative. Polecat, ermine, and weasel are also widely distributed and locally very abundant; the mink is confined to the western side of the Ural, and is also absent from its tributaries, the Irtish and Ob, which harbour the otter in considerable numbers; the badger is hardly ever mentioned in West Siberia; and the universally distributed glutton is less thought of than any other of the martens, being hunted not so much for his skin as because of his thefts from the traps.

Fig. 24.—Sable and Hazel-grouse in a Siberian Forest.

Although the west of Siberia is regarded as altogether over-shot, the forest-folk prepare every year to hunt for sable and other martens. Some huntsmen undertake expeditions and explorations, which compare with those of the North American trappers. Of course, they do not confine their attention to martens, but are prepared to bag all kinds of game; the main objects of their quest, however, are martens and squirrels. According to the time of colour-change in the latter the huntsmen arrange their departure from the village home, for the change of colour in the squirrels is regarded as an indication of the approaching winter, whether it is to be early or late, severe or mild.

Armed and equipped as we have already described, the sable-hunters set out, after the first snowfall, in companies of three to five. Besides gun and ammunition each of them carries a sack on his back, snow-shoes and a hatchet on his shoulders, and a whip in his girdle. The sack contains the indispensable provisions:—bread, meal, bacon, and “brick-tea”,[36] also a few utensils, such as a pan, tea-kettle, drinking-vessel, spoons, and the like, and less frequently a flask of spirits. The whip is used to drive out the squirrels and to bring them into sight. Four to six dogs, which offend the eye of every German sportsman, join the company.

Guided by the sun, which, however, is often hidden for days, and by the known stars, the weather-beaten huntsmen traverse the inhospitable wilds, camping out at night, feeding themselves and their dogs on the flesh of the game they shoot, and sparing their small store of provisions as carefully as possible. The ungainly but clever and wide-awake dogs not only scent the tracks of game, but, spying unfailingly the martens or squirrels hidden on the trees, bark at them and keep them in sight till the huntsman is on the spot. He approaches with the imperturbable quietness of all forest sportsmen, rests his long musket carefully on a branch, or, if need be, on the fork fastened to the barrel, takes a slow aim, and fires. At the outset of the hunt, the squirrels and even the pine-martens are so much disturbed by the dogs that they allow the sportsman to approach to within a few yards; soon, however, they become wiser, and a sure and steady aim becomes difficult. If the huntsman gets this, and succeeds in sending a ball through the animal’s eye, then he is well-pleased, for not only has he secured an undamaged skin, but he can recover his precious leaden shot. As soon as he has got possession of his fallen booty he skins it, in the case of martens and squirrels forcing the viscera through the mouth opening. The skull is broken open to recover the shot, and skin and body, separated from one another, are consigned to the bag.

When squirrels are plentiful, the hunt is as profitable as it is entertaining. Everyone utilizes the short day to the utmost; one shot quickly follows another; and the pile of skins rapidly grows. Loading the gun is a tedious matter, but the skinning is done all the more quickly; and every huntsman faithfully does his utmost. Without resting, without eating, without even smoking, the huntsmen go forward while they may. As the dogs call, the comrades draw together or separate; the sharp report of their guns and the cheerful barking of the dogs is to them a stimulating entertainment. They count the shots, and welcome or envy their neighbours’ luck. But if the winter’s yield be a poor one, if the oft-repeated cracking of the whip calls forth no squirrel, if there be no tracks of sable or noble marten, of elk or reindeer to be seen, huntsmen and dogs trudge silently and moodily through the forest, and short commons put the finishing touch to their ill-humour.

When night comes on, our sportsmen have to think of preparing their beds. From under an old, thick, fallen tree each shovels out the snow, makes a trough the size of a man, and kindles a strong fire in it. One of them then clears the snow from a circular patch as nearly as possible in the middle of all the hollows, and under the shelter of thick firs or pines; another gathers fuel; a third heaps up in the clearing a still stronger fire, and a fourth prepares supper. So many squirrels have been shot that there is no lack of strong meat soup with which to give a relish to the porridge and bread. The sportsmen have their supper and go shares with the dogs, refresh themselves with tea and a pipe made of twisted paper and then, after the fashion of their kind, discuss the exploits and experiences of the day. Meantime the fire in each hole has melted the snow, dried up the moisture, caught hold of the old tree-trunk above, and thus thoroughly warmed the chamber. Carefully each sleepy hunter pushes the still glowing fragments of wood to one end of the hole, and into this, avoiding the side-wall of snow, he creeps, calling his dogs after him that they too may share the warm bed, and soon he is asleep. It is true that glowing sparks from the smouldering tree-trunk fall throughout the night alike on the hunter and his dogs, but a Siberian’s fur hunting-coat can stand as much as a Siberian dog’s skin; and it is evident that a log like this will give much more heat than a much larger free fire. It is to the hole what the stove is to the room; it alone makes it possible for the sportsman to camp out in the forest.

In the gray dawn the huntsmen arise refreshed, have breakfast, and go on their way. If they reach a good hunting-ground, which is visited every winter, they stay as long as they think fit. Here and there they find a log-hut built in previous years and still serviceable for shelter; in any case there are old and new fall-traps, which have to be put in order and visited every morning. This takes time, for the traps are often distributed over a wide range, and so it may be that the company stay a week or more in one part of the forest, and hunt it thoroughly, before they continue their wanderings.

On these hunting expeditions many Siberians pass the greater part of the winter in the forest. Before he sets out, the huntsman usually makes a bargain with a merchant. He promises the merchant all the skins he gets at a certain average price, provided the merchant will buy all without selection. If the hunter has good luck he may, even nowadays, make enough out of it to keep him alive, or at least to defray the expenses of the winter; usually, however, he has little recompense for his hardships and privations, and no one less modest in his demands than the Siberian huntsman could make it a means of livelihood.

Hunting the bear is regarded by the West Siberians as the most honourable and the most arduous kind of sport. For in this region Bruin is by no means the good-natured, simple creature he still is here and there in East Siberia; he is rather, as in most regions, a rough, uncouth fellow, who usually runs away from man, but who, when wounded or driven into a corner, will show fight savagely and prove himself exceedingly formidable. In spite of all persecution, he is still far from extermination; his occurrence may be spoken of as frequent, or, at any rate, as not uncommon. Always and everywhere, however, he goes his own way, and does not too often cross man’s path. Not that he is shy of human settlements, for he often stations himself not far from these, and sometimes falls upon domestic animals under the very eyes of their possessors; but he shows himself so sporadically that many Siberians have never seen him face to face, nor met him in the forest. It seems likely that he goes a-touring all the summer. He traverses the woods with a disregard of paths, but keeps to more or less beaten tracks when he ascends to the heights of the mountains in late summer, or returns to lower ground at the beginning of winter. When the corn is ripe, he stations himself in the fringes of the forest that he may steal comfortably from the adjacent fields; sometimes he leaves the wood entirely and visits the steppes, or the mountain-sides with steppe characters; he will stay a long time in one district and hurry through another without stopping, always and everywhere keeping a sharp look-out for the constantly recurring opportunities of securing his favourite foods. In most districts he is emphatically a vegetarian; here and there he becomes a formidable carnivore; in other places he seeks after carrion. In spring he is on short commons, and takes what he can get; he sneaks stealthily on the herds grazing in the woodland, makes a sudden bound on a victim, or pursues it with surprising rapidity, seizes it, drags it to the ground, kills it, and, after satiating himself, buries the remainder for a future meal. When a cattle plague rages, he visits the burial-places in order to secure the carcasses, and he is even accused of being a body-snatcher. In summer he plunders the fields of rye, wheat, and oats, robs bee-hives, and the nests of wild-bees and wasps, destroys ant-hills for the sake of the pupæ, rolls old trunks over to get at the beetles and grubs beneath, and even breaks up mouldering trees to capture the larvæ which live in rotting wood. In autumn he lives almost exclusively on berries of all sorts, and even on those fruits which he can gather from such trees as the bird-cherry; when the cembra-cones are ripe he goes after these, climbing lofty trees, and breaking off not only branches but the very tops; nor can he refrain from persistently prowling round the stores in which the cones are temporarily collected, or from trying to find his way in. Moreover, at all seasons he tries his hand at fishing, and not unfrequently with success. From man he usually runs away, but sometimes he will attack him without further ado, not hesitating even at superior force. According to the weather he times his winter-sleep. For his bed he selects a suitable place under a fallen giant tree; there he scrapes out a shallow hole, covers the floor with fine pine-twigs and moss a foot and a half deep, cushions the side-walls with the same material, covers the outside with branches and pieces of stem, creeps into the interior, and allows himself to be snowed up. If the first snowfall surprise him on the mountains, he does not always descend, but hides in a rock-cave which he furnishes as best he can, or else expands a marmot’s burrow till it is just big enough to hold him, and there sleeps through the winter. Once sunk into deep sleep, he lies dormant so obstinately that many efforts are often necessary to rouse him; he bites savagely at the poles with which the huntsman tries to poke him up, he growls and roars, and only surrenders when rockets or fire-brands are thrown on his refuge. Then, if he be not wounded, he rushes forth like a startled boar, and seeks safety in rapid flight. According to the consistent evidence of all experienced huntsmen, the she-bear brings forth young only every second winter, and does not awake from her deep sleep until a short time before the birth; she licks her cubs clean and dry, sets them to suck, and continues her sleep in snatches. At the end of May or in June she seeks out her older children, of two or even four years’ growth, and compels them to do service as nurses.[37]

Although the flesh of the bear is by no means unpalatable, it is but little esteemed in West Siberia, where bear-hams are served up rather in obedience to fashion than from appreciation of the dish. Nevertheless, the bear-hunt brings in rich gain. The skin is in great demand for sledge-rugs and fetches a high price; teeth and claws serve not only among the Ostiaks and Samoyedes, but also among the West Siberian peasants, as potent charms; even the bones are now and then used. The canine of a bear slain in honourable combat brings to the Ostiak hunter, so he believes, supernatural gifts, especially courage, strength, and even invulnerability. A claw, especially the fourth of the right fore-foot, which corresponds to the ring finger, is prized by the love-lorn maiden of the Ural, for the youth whom she secretly scratches with it is bound to return her love ardently. Teeth and claws have, therefore, a high value, and have more effect in inciting the huntsman to pursue the most formidable carnivore of the forest, than any damage which Bruin does. But the chase is neither easy nor without danger. Traps do not seem to be of any avail. The hunter must seek out the bear, and, weapon in hand, helped by his practised dogs, must do battle. During the summer the restless habits of the bear make the chase very difficult; during winter there is the chance of finding a lair and of killing the sleeper in or near it. The poor peasant who discovers a lair sells the bear in situ to any well-to-do sportsman, who, on a suitable day, goes with him and the requisite associates and surrounds the sleeper with sure marksmen. Beaters rouse the creature from his slumbers and bring him into view, and the huntsman shoots from the nearest possible distance. It is thus that the great majority of the bears are secured, and to good shots there is little danger. In summer and autumn they track the bear with small dogs, and while these bait him on all sides, the sportsman seizes a good opportunity for a telling shot. Or he may use the bear-spear, as the bold Ostiaks do, and charge the animal. Or else he may wind birch-bark several times round his left arm, and, holding this as a shield against the angry bear, may plunge a long, broad knife into his heart as he snaps at the bark. In these modes of attack accidents do, indeed, often happen; but in the course of time some hunters become so expert and cold-blooded that they prefer the spear or knife to any other weapon. Indeed, a peasant girl in the village of Morschowa is famous all over West Siberia for having killed more than thirty bears with the knife.

Of undesired encounters with bears many stories are told. A hunter, armed only with a pea-rifle, came across a large bear in the forest, but did not dare to shoot, knowing that his weapon was too small for such big game. He therefore remained still, so as not to irritate the bear. But Bruin came along, raised himself, snuffed at the huntsman’s face, and then gave him a blow which stretched him senseless on the ground. Thereupon the bear ran away as quickly as possible, just as if he thought that he had played a naughty trick. Two Swedes, Aberg and Erland, were hunting hazel-grouse on the Urals. The former approached a bramble bush in the hope of raising a bird, when to his surprise a huge bear jumped up and made for him at once. As flight was impossible, Aberg raised his fowling-piece to his shoulder, aimed at the bear’s eye, fired, and was fortunate enough to blind him. Maddened with the pain, the bear covered the bleeding eye with his paw, roared loudly, and rushed on at the undismayed huntsman. But the latter coolly took aim at the other eye and fired again with equal effect. Then he called for his comrade, and they fired alternately at the blinded bear until he was dead.

But the merriest tale had its scene in the village of Tomski Sawod in the district of Salair. One of the peasants was leading a load of cembra-cones through the forest, and did not notice that the cones were falling out of one of his sacks. A bear, who was wandering through the forest in the rear of the cart, crossed the road, and finding some of the cones looked for more, and followed the track unnoticed. After a time the peasant left the horse and cart standing, and diverged into the wood to fetch another sack which he had left filled with cones. But before he returned with his burden, the bear, still gathering cones, had reached the cart and climbed into it, there to feast to his heart’s content. With no little dismay the peasant perceived as he drew near what passenger had taken possession, and not daring to dispute his right, left him with the horse and cart. The horse, becoming uneasy, looked back, recognized the bear, and forthwith trotted off as fast as he could go. But the undesired jolting frightened the bear and prevented him from leaping off. He was forced to sit still and hold on, venting his increasing discontent in loud roars. The roaring only served to increase the pace; the more the bear stormed, the faster the horse hastened to the village. Now the village-folk had been for several hours expecting a visit from the bishop, and were standing at their doors in holiday attire, ready to greet his reverence when he appeared. Already sharp-eyed boys had been posted on the outlook on the church-tower, with instructions to toll the bells when the bishop’s company came in sight. In the distance was seen a whirling cloud of dust; the boys sprang to the bells, men and women arranged themselves in rows, the priest appeared with incense before the door of the church, every soul stood ready to give a worthy reception to the dignitary of the church. On came the rattling cart, and right through the festive village tore horse and driver, the former covered with dust, sweating and panting, the latter roaring and snorting, their mad career only ending when they reached the peasant’s yard. Instead of the beautiful Russian psalm, the terrified cries of half-senseless women rang out through the air, and the men, instead of doing dutiful reverence, rushed about astonished and affrighted. Only the church bells continued to peal. Before these had ceased, the men had recovered presence of mind and got hold of their weapons. The cart was followed, and the bear, who seemed to have lost all his wits, was soon stretched dead on the throne which he had himself chosen.

Those who know the ways of bears will allow that all might have happened as I have described, though we may be inclined to regard the humorous story as one of the sportsman’s budget. For even the most serious and honourable forest-folk sometimes mingle truth and fancy when they tell of the forests and woodcraft of Siberia.