Above this point the villages had an appearance of respectable age not perceptible in the settlements along the Amoor. Ten or twelve miles from our wooding place we met ice coming out of the Chorney river, but it gave us no inconvenience. The valley became wider and the hills less abrupt, while the villages had an air of irregularity more pleasing than the military precision on the Amoor. I saw many dwellings on which decay’s effacing fingers were busy. The telegraph posts were fixed above Gorbitza, but the wires had not been strung.
There were many haystacks at the villages, and I could see droves of cattle and sheep on the cleared hills. At one landing I found a man preparing his house for winter by calking the seams with moss. Under the eaves of another house there were many birds that resembled American swallows. I could not say whether they were migratory or not, but if the former they were making their northern stay a late one. Their twitterings reminded me of the time when I used to go at nightfall, ‘when the swallows homeward fly,’ and listen to the music without melody as the birds exchanged their greetings, told their loves, and gossipped of their adventures.
PREPARING FOR WINTER.
Just at sunset we reached Shilikinsk, a town stretching nearly two miles along the river, on a plateau thirty feet high. We stopped in the morning where there was abundance of wood, but only took enough to carry us to Shilikinsk. There was a lady in the case. Our first officer had a feminine acquaintance at the town, and accordingly wished to stop for wood, and, if possible, to pass the night there. His plan failed, as no wood could be discovered at Shilikinsk, though our loving mate scanned every part of the bank. We had enough fuel to take us a few miles farther, where we found wood and remained for the night. The disappointed swain pocketed his chagrin and solaced himself by playing the agreeable to a lady passenger.
I saw in the edge of the town a large building surrounded with a palisaded wall. “What is that?” I asked, pointing to the structure new to my eyes.
“It is a station for exiles,” was my friend’s reply, “when they pass through the town. They generally remain here over night, and sometimes a few days, and this is their lodging. You will see many such on your way through Siberia.”
“Is it also the prison for those who are kept here permanently?” “No; the prison is another affair. The former prison at Shilikinsk has been converted into a glass manufactory. Just behind it is a large tannery, heretofore celebrated throughout Eastern Siberia for its excellent leather.”
As we proceeded the country became more open and less mountainous, and I saw wide fields on either side. A road was visible along the northern bank of the river, sometimes cut in the hillside where the slope was steep. On the southern bank there was no road beyond that for local use. The telegraph followed the northern side, but frequently left the road to take short cuts across the hills.
We struck a rock ten miles from our journey’s end, and for several minutes I thought we should go gracefully to the bottom. We whirled twice around on the rock before we left it, and our captain feared we had sprung a leak. When once more afloat Borasdine and I packed our baggage and prepared for the shore. We ate the last of our preserves and gave sundry odds and ends to the Cossacks. As a last act we opened the remaining bottles of a case of champagne, and joined officers and fellow passengers in drinking everybody’s health.