Chapter V: THE BIOLOGICAL TYPE. In some ways the most important scientific (3)

Likewise characteristic of the tundra are the birds of prey, or, at least, their manner of life there is characteristic. For it is only on the southern boundary of the region or among the heights that there are trees or rocks on which they can build their eyries, and they are perforce obliged to brood on the ground. Among the winding branches of the dwarf-birch is the nest of the marsh-owl, on its crown that of the rough-legged buzzard; on the bare ground lie the eggs of the snowy-owl and the peregrine falcon, though the latter chooses a place as near as possible to the edge of a gully, as though he would deceive himself by vainly attempting to make up for the lack of heights. That it and all the others are fully conscious of the insecurity of their nesting-place is shown by their behaviour on the approach of man. From a distance the traveller is watched suspiciously and is greeted with loud cries; the nearer he approaches the greater grows the fear of the anxious parents. Hitherto they have been circling at a safe distance, about twice as far as a shot would carry, over the unfamiliar but dreaded enemy; now they swoop boldly down, and fly so closely past his head that he distinctly hears the sharp whirr of their wings, sometimes indeed he has reason to fear that he will be actually attacked. Meanwhile the young birds, which are visible even from a distance as white balls, bend timidly down and await the approach of this enemy,--suspected at least, if not known as such,--sitting so still in their chosen, or perhaps forced position that one can sketch them without fear of being disturbed by a single movement--a charming picture!

Many other animals might be enumerated if I thought them necessary to a picture of the tundra. At least one more is characteristic--the mosquito. To call it the most important living creature of the tundra would be scarcely an exaggeration. It enables not a few of the higher animals, especially birds and fishes, to live; it forces others, like man, to periodic wanderings; and it is in itself enough to make the tundra uninhabitable in summer by civilized beings. Its numbers are beyond all conception; its power conquers man and beast; the torture it causes beggars description.

It is well known that the eggs of all mosquitoes are laid in the water, and that the larvæ which creep forth in a few days remain in the water till their metamorphosis is accomplished. This explains why the tundra is more favourable than any other region to their development, and to their occurrence in enormous numbers. As soon as the sun, once more ascending, has thawed the snow, the ice, and the upper crust of the earth, the life of the mosquito, latent in winter but not extinguished, begins to stir again. The larvæ escape from the eggs which have been buried, but not destroyed, in the frozen mud; in a few days these larvæ become pupæ, the pupæ become winged insects, and generation follows generation in quick succession. The heyday of the terrible pests lasts from before the beginning of the summer solstice until the middle of August.

During the whole of this time they are present on the heights as in the low grounds, on the mountains or hills as in the valleys, among the dwarf-birches and sallow bushes as on the banks of rivers and lakes. Every grass-stalk, every moss-blade, every twig, every branch, every little leaf sends forth hundreds and thousands of them all day long. The mosquitoes of tropical countries, of the forests and marshes of South America, the interior of Africa, India, and the Sunda islands, so much dreaded by travellers, swarm only at night; the mosquitoes of the tundra fly for ten weeks, for six of these actually without interruption. They form swarms which look like thick black smoke; they surround, as with a fog, every creature which ventures into their domains; they fill the air in such numbers that one hardly dares to breathe; they baffle every attempt to drive them off; they transform the strongest man into an irresolute weakling, his anger into fear, his curses into groans.

As soon as the traveller sets foot on the tundra their buzzing is heard, now like the singing of a tea-kettle, now like the sound of a vibrating metal rod, and, a few minutes later, he is surrounded by thousands and thousands. A cloud of them swarms round head and shoulders, body and limbs, follows his steps, however quickly he moves, and cannot possibly be dispersed. If he remain standing, the cloud thickens; if he move on, it draws itself out; if he run as quickly as possible, it stretches into a long train, but does not remain behind. If a moderate wind is blowing against them, the insects hasten their flight to make headway against the current of air; when the wind is more violent all the members of the swarm strain themselves to the utmost so as not to lose their victim, and pounce like pricking hailstones on head and neck. Before he knows, he is covered from head to foot with mosquitoes. In a dense swarm, blackening gray clothes, giving dark ones a strange spotted appearance, they settle down and creep slowly about, looking for an unappropriated spot from which to suck blood. They creep noiselessly and without being felt to the unprotected face and neck, the bare hands and the feet covered only with stockings, and a moment later they slowly sink their sting into the skin, and pour the irritant poison into the wound. Furiously the victim beats the blood-sucker to a pulp, but while the chastising hand still moves, three, four, ten other gnats fasten on it, while others begin work on the face, neck, and feet, ready to do exactly as the slain ones had done. For when blood has once flowed, when several insects have met their death on the same place, all the rest seek out that very spot, even though the surface becomes gradually covered with bodies. Specially favourite points of attack are the temples, the forehead just under the hat-brim, the neck and the wrist, places, in short, which can be least well protected.

If an observer can so far restrain himself as to watch them at their work of blood, without driving them away or disturbing them, he notices that neither their settling nor their moving about is felt in the least. Immediately after alighting they set to work. Leisurely they walk up and down on the skin, carefully feeling it with their proboscis; suddenly they stand still and with surprising ease pierce the skin. While they suck, they lift one of the hind-legs and wave it with evident satisfaction backwards and forwards, the more emphatically the more the translucent body becomes filled with blood. As soon as they have tasted blood they pay no heed to anything else, and seem scarcely to feel though they are molested and tortured. If one draws the proboscis out of the wound with forceps, they feel about for a moment, and then bore again in the same or a new place; if one cuts the proboscis quickly through with sharp scissors, they usually remain still as if they must think for a minute, then pass the forelegs gently over the remaining portion and make a prolonged examination to assure themselves that the organ is no longer present; if one suddenly cuts off one of their hind-legs, they go on sucking as if nothing had happened and continue to move the stump; if one cuts the blood-filled body in half, they proceed like Münchausen’s horse at the well, but at length they withdraw the proboscis from the wound, fly staggeringly away and die within a few minutes.

Careful observation of their habits places it beyond doubt that, in the discovery of their victim, they are guided less by sight than by smell, or perhaps, more correctly, by a sense which unites smell and tactile sensitiveness.[14] It can be observed with certainty that, if a human being approach within five yards of their resting-place, they rise and fly to their prey without hesitating or diverging. If anyone crosses a bare sand-bank usually free from them he can observe how they gather about their victim. Apparently half carried by the wind, half moving by their own exertions, but at any rate wandering aimlessly, some float continually over even this place of pilgrimage, and a few thus reach the neighbourhood of the observer. At once their seeming inactivity is at an end. Abruptly they alter their course, and make straight for the happily-found object of their longing. Others soon join them, and before five minutes have passed, the martyr is again surrounded by a nimbus. They find their way less easily through different strata of air. While observing them on a high dune I had been followed and tormented for some time by thousands, so I led the swarm to the edge of the steep slope, let it thicken there, and then sprang suddenly to the foot. With much satisfaction I saw that I had shaken off the greater number of my tormentors. They swarmed in bewildered confusion on the top of the dune, forming a dense cloud for some time over the place from which I had leaped. A few hundreds had, however, followed me to the lower ground.

Though the naturalist knows that it is only the female mosquitoes which suck blood, and that their activity in this respect is indubitably connected with reproduction, and is probably necessary to the ripening of the fertilized eggs, yet even he is finally overcome by the tortures caused by these demons of the tundra, though he be the most equable philosopher under the sun. It is not the pain caused by the sting, or still more, by the resulting swelling; it is the continual annoyance, the everlastingly recurring discomfort under which one suffers. One can endure the pain of the sting without complaint even at first, still more easily when the skin has become less sensitive to the repeatedly instilled poison; thus one can hold out for a long time. But sooner or later every man is bound to confess himself conquered and beaten by these terrible torturing spirits of the tundra. All resistance is gradually paralysed by the innumerable, omnipresent armies always ready for combat. The foot refuses its duty; the mind receives no impressions; the tundra becomes a hell, and its pests an unutterable torture. Not winter with its snows, not the ice with its cold, not poverty, not inhospitality, but the mosquitoes are the curse of the tundra.[15]

During the height of their season the mosquitoes fly almost uninterruptedly, during sunshine and calm weather with evident satisfaction, in a moderate wind quite comfortably, in slightly warm weather gaily, before threatening rain most boisterously of all, in cool weather very little, in cold, not at all. A violent storm banishes them to the bushes and moss, but, as soon as it moderates, they are once more lively and active, and in all places sheltered from the wind they are ready for attack even while the storm is raging. A night of hoar-frost plays obvious havoc among them, but does not rid us of them; cold damp days thin their armies, but succeeding warmth brings hosts of newly developed individuals on the field. The autumn fogs finally bring deliverance for that year.

Autumn in the tundra comes on as quickly as spring came slowly. A single cold night, generally in August, or at the latest in September, puts an end to its summer life. The berries, which, in the middle of August, looked as if they would scarcely ripen at all, have become as juicy and sweet as possible by the end of the month; a few damp, cold nights, which lightly cover the hills with snow, hasten their ripening more than the sun, which is already clouded over all day long. The leaves of the dwarf-birch become a pale but brilliant lake-red on the upper surface, a bright yellow beneath; all the other bushes and shrubs undergo a similar transformation: and the gloomy brown-green of the tundra becomes such a vivid brown-red that even the yellow-green of the reindeer-moss is no longer conspicuous. The winged summer guests fly southwards or towards the sea, the fishes of the tundra swim down the rivers. From the hills the reindeer, followed by the wolf, comes down to the low grounds; the ptarmigan, now congregated in flocks of thousands, fly up to the heights to remain until winter again drives them down to the low tundra.

After a few days this winter, as much dreaded by us as by the migratory birds, yet longed for by the human inhabitants of the tundra, sets in on the inhospitable land, to maintain its supremacy longer, much longer than spring, summer, and autumn together. For days and weeks in succession snow falls, sometimes coming down lightly in sharp-cornered crystals, or sometimes in large flakes, driven by a raging storm. Hills and valleys, rivers and lakes are gradually shrouded in the same winter dress. A brief ray of sunshine still gleams occasionally at mid-day over the snowy expanse; but soon only a pale brightness in the south proclaims that there the sunny day is half-gone. The long night of winter has begun. For months only the faint reflection of the stars twinkles in the snow, only the moon gives tidings of the vitalizing centre of our system. But when the sun has quite disappeared from the tundra another light rises radiant: far up in the north there flickers and flashes “Soweidud”, the fire of God, the flaming Northern Light.

THE ASIATIC STEPPES AND THEIR FAUNA.

There is perhaps monotony, but there is also the interest of a well-marked individuality in that immense tract of country which includes the whole of Central Asia, and extends into Southern Europe, and which forms the region of the steppes. To the superficial observer it may seem an easy thing to characterize these steppes, but the difficulty of the task is soon felt by the careful observer. For the steppes are not so invariably uniform, so absolutely changeless as is usually supposed. They have their time of blooming and their time of withering, their summer and their winter aspects, and some variety at every season is implied in the fact that there are mountains and valleys, streams and rivers, lakes and marshes. The monotony is really due to the thousand-fold repetition of the same picture, what pleased and even charmed when first seen becoming tame by everyday familiarity.

The Russian applies the word steppe, which we have borrowed from his language, to all unwooded tracts in middle latitudes, when they are of considerable extent, and bear useful vegetation. It matters not whether they be perfectly flat or gently undulating plains, highlands or mountains, whether there be patches of fat, black soil, admitting of profitable agriculture, or merely great tracts of poor soil covered with such vegetation as grows without man’s aid, and is useful only to the nomadic herdsman. This wide usage of the term is convenient, for throughout the whole region we find the same plants rising from the ground, the same types of animal life, and approximately the same phenomena of seasonal change.

Unwooded the steppe-lands must be called, but they are not absolutely treeless. Neither shrubs nor trees are awanting where the beds of the streams and rivers form broad and deep valleys. In very favourable circumstances, willows, white and silver poplars, grow to be lofty trees, which may unite in a thick fringe by the river banks, or birches may establish themselves and form groves and woods, or pines may plant their feet firmly on the sand-dunes, and form small settlements, which, though not comparable to true forests, are, at least, compact little woods, like the growths along the river-banks. But, after all, such wooded spots are exceptions, they constitute to some extent a foreign element in the steppe scenery, and suggest oases in a desert.

At one place the steppe may stretch before the eye as a boundless plain, here and there gently undulating; at another place the region has been much upheaved, is full of variety, and may even be mountainous. Generally the horizon is bounded on all sides by ranges of hills of variable height, and often these hills inclose a trough-like valley from which it seems as if the water must be puzzled to find its way out, if, indeed, it does so at all. From the longer cross valleys of the often much-ramified ranges a small stream may flow towards the lowest part of the basin and end in a lake, whose salt-covered shores sparkle in the distance as if the winter snow still lay upon them. Viewed from afar, the hills look like lofty mountains, for on these vast plains the eye loses its standard for estimating magnitude; and when the rocks stand out above the surface and form domes and cones, sharp peaks and jagged pinnacles on their summits, even the practised observer is readily deceived. Of course there are some genuinely lofty mountains, for, apart from those near the Chinese boundary, there are others on the Kirghiz steppes, which even on close view lose little of the impressiveness that the ruggedness of their peaks and slopes gives them when seen from a distance. The higher and more ramified the mountains, the more numerous are the streams which they send down to the lower grounds, and the larger are the lakes that occupy the depressions at their base--basins which their feeders are unable to fill, even though unable to find a way through the surrounding banks. The more extensive, also, are the salt-steppes around these lakes--salt because they have no outlet. But apart from these variations, the characteristics of the steppes are uniform; though the composition of the picture is often changed, its theme remains the same.

We should convey a false impression if we denied charm, or even grandeur, to the scenery of the steppes. The North German moorland is drearier, Brandenburg is more monotonous. In the gently undulating plain the eye rests gratefully on the lakes which fill all the deeper hollows; in the highlands or among the loftier mountains the gleaming water-basins are a real ornament to the landscape. It is true that the lake is, in most cases, though not invariably, without the charm of surrounding verdure, often without so much as a fringe of bushes. But, even when it lies naked and bare, it brightens the steppes. For the blue sky, mirrored on its surface, smiles kindly towards us, and the enlivening effect of water makes itself felt even here. And when a lake is ringed round by hills, or framed, as at Alakul, by lofty mountains; when the steppes are sharply and picturesquely contrasted with the glittering water-surface, the dark mountain-sides, and the snowy summits; when the soft haze of distance lies like a delicate veil over hill and plain, suggesting a hidden beauty richer than there really is; then we acknowledge readily and gladly that there is a witchery of landscape even in the steppes.

Even when we traverse the monotonous valleys many miles in breadth, or the almost unbroken plains, whose far horizon is but an undulating line, when we see one almost identical picture to north, south, east, and west, when the apparent infinitude raises a feeling of loneliness and abandonment, even then we must allow that the steppes have more to show than our heaths, for the vegetation is much richer, more brilliant, and more changeful. Indeed, it is only here and there, where the salt-steppes broaden out around a lake, that the landscape seems dreary and desolate. In such places none of the steppe plants flourish, and their place is taken by a small, scrubby saltwort, not unlike stunted heather, only here and there attaining the size of low bushes. The salt lies as a more or less thick layer on the ground, filling the hollows between the bushes so that they look like pools covered with ice. Salt covers the whole land, keeping the mud beneath permanently moist, adhering firmly to the ground, and hardly separable from it. Great balls of salt and mud are raised by the traveller’s feet and the horses’ hoofs at every step, just as if the ground were covered with slushy snow. The waggon makes a deep track in the tough substratum, and the trundling wheels sometimes leave marks on the salt like those left on snow in time of hard frost. Such regions are in truth indescribably dismal and depressing, but elsewhere it is not so.

The vegetation of the steppes is much richer in species than is usually supposed, much richer indeed than I, not being a botanist, am able to compute. On the black soil, the tschi-grass, the thyrsa-grass, and the spiræa in some places choke off almost all other plants; but in the spaces between these, and on leaner soil, all sorts of gay flowers spring up. In the hollows, too, the vegetation becomes gradually that of the marsh, and reeds and rushes, which here predominate, leave abundant room for the development of a varied plant-life. But the time of blooming is short, and the time of withering and dying is long in the steppes.[16]

Perhaps it is not too much to say that the contrasts of the seasons are nowhere more vivid than in the steppes. Wealth of bright flowers and desert-like sterility, the charms of autumn and the desolation of winter, succeed one another; the disruptive forces are as strong as those which recreate, the sun’s heat destroys as surely as the cold. But what has been smitten by the heat and swept away by raging storms is replaced in the first sunshine of spring; and even the devouring fire is not potent enough wholly to destroy what has been spared by the sun and the storms. The spring may seem more potent in tropical lands, but nowhere is it more marvellous than in the steppes, where in its power it stands--alone--opposed to summer, autumn, and winter.

The steppes are still green when summer steals upon them, but already their full splendour has sped. Only a few plants have yet to attain their maturity, and they wither in the first days of the burning heat; soon the gay garment of spring is exchanged for one of gray and yellow. The sappy, green thyrsa-grass still withstands the drought; but its fine, flowing, thickly-haired beards have already attained their full growth, and wave about in the gentlest breeze, casting a silvery veil over the green beneath. A few days more, and both leaves and awns are as dry as the already yellowed tschi-grass, which appears in spring like sprouting corn, and is now like that which awaits the sickle. The broad leaves of the rhubarb lie dried on the ground, the spiræa is withered, the Caragan pea-tree is leafless, honeysuckle and dwarf-almond show autumnal tints; the thistle tops are hoary; only the wormwoods and mugworts preserve their gray-green leaves unchanged. Bright uninterrupted sunshine beats down upon the thirsty land, for it is but rarely that the clouds gather into wool-packs on the sky, and even if they are occasionally heavy with rain, the downpour is scarce enough to lay the whirling dust which every breath of wind raises. The animals still keep to their summer quarters, but the songs of the birds are already hushed. Creeping things there are in abundance, such as lizards and snakes, mostly vipers; and the grasshoppers swarm in countless hosts, forming clouds when they take wing over the steppes.

Before the summer has ended, the steppes have put on their autumnal garb, a variously shaded gray-yellow, but without variety and without charm. All the brittle plants are snapped to the ground by the first storm, and the next blast scatters them in a whirling dance over the steppes. Grappling one another with their branches and twigs, they are rolled together into balls, skipping and leaping like spooks before the raging wind, half-hidden in clouds of drifting dust with which the dark or snow-laden packs in the sky above seem to be running a race. The summer land-birds have long since flown southwards; the water-birds, of which there are hosts on every lake, are preparing for flight; the migratory mammals wend in crowded troops from one promise of food to another; the winter-sleepers have closed the doors of their retreats; reptiles and insects have withdrawn into their winter hiding-places.

A single night’s frost covers all the water-basins with thin ice; a few more days of cold and the fetters of winter are laid heavily on the lakes and pools; and only the rivers and streams, longer able to withstand the frost, afford a briefly prolonged shelter to the migratory birds which have still delayed their farewell. Gentle north-west winds sweep dark clouds across the land, and the snow drizzles down in small flakes. The mountains have already thrown on their snowy mantles; and now the low ground of the steppes puts on its garment of white. The wolf, apprehensive of storms, leaves the reed-thickets and the spiræa shrubberies which have hitherto served him well as hiding-places, and slinks hungrily around the villages and the winter quarters of the nomad herdsman, who now seeks out the most sheltered and least exhausted of the low grounds, in order to save his herds, as far as may be, from the scarcity, hardship, and misery of the winter. Against the greedy wolf the herdsman acts on the aggressive, as do the Cossack settlers and peasants; he rides out in pursuit, follows the thief’s tell-tale track to his lair, drives him out, and gives chase. With exultant shouts he spurs on his horse and terrifies the fugitive, all the while brandishing in his right hand a strong sapling with knobbed roots. The snow whirls around wolf, horse, and rider; the keen frost bites the huntsman’s face, but he cares not. After a chase of an hour, or at most of two hours, the wolf, which may have run a dozen or twenty miles, can go no further, and turns upon its pursuer. Its tongue hangs far out from its throat, the ice-tipped hairs of its reeking hide stand up stiffly, in its mad eyes is expressed the dread of death. Only for a moment does the noble horse hesitate, then, urged on by shout and knout, makes a rush at the fell enemy. High in the air the hunter swings his fatal club, down it whizzes, and the wolf lies gasping and quivering in its death agony. Wild horses and antelopes, impelled by hunger, like the wolf, shift their quarters at this season, in the endeavour to eke out a bare subsistence; even the wild sheep of the mountains wend from one hillside to another; only the hares and the imperturbable sand-grouse hold their ground, the former feeding on stems and bark, the latter on seeds and buds, but both finding only a scant subsistence.

For many days in succession the fall of snow continues; then the wind, which brought the clouds, dies away, but the sky remains as dark as ever. The wind changes and blows harder and harder from east, south-east, south, or south-west. A thin cloud sweeps over the white ground--it is formed of whirling snow; the wind becomes a tempest; the cloud rises up to heaven: and, maddening, bewildering even to the most weather-hardened, dangerous in the extreme to all things living, the _buran_ rages across the steppes, a snow-hurricane, as terrible as the typhoon or the simoom with its poisonous breath. For two or three days such a snow-storm may rage with uninterrupted fury, and both man and beast are absolutely storm-stayed. A man overtaken in the open country is lost, unless some special providence save him; nay, more, even in the village or steppe-town, he who ventures out of doors when the buran is at its height may perish, as indeed not rarely happens. When February is past, man and beast are fairly safe, and may breathe freely, though the winter still continues to press heavily on the steppes.

The sun rises higher in the heavens; its rays fall more warmly on the southern slopes of the mountains and hills, and dark patches of clear ground appear everywhere, growing larger day by day, except when an occasional fresh fall of snow hides them for a little. The first breath of spring comes at last, but only slowly can it free the land from winter’s shackles. Only when the life-giving sunshine is accompanied by the soft south wind, at the earliest in the beginning of April, usually about the middle of the month, does the snow disappear quickly from the lower slopes of the mountains and from the deep valleys rich in black earth. Only in gorges and steep-walled hollows, behind precipitous hills, and amid thick bushes, do the snow-wreaths linger for almost another month. In all other places the newly-awakened life bursts forth in strength. The thirsty soil sucks in the moisture which the melting snow supplies, and the two magicians--sun and water--now unite their irresistible powers. Even before the last snow-wreaths have vanished, before the rotten ice-blocks have melted on the lakes, the bulbous plants, and others which live through the winter, put forth their leaves and raise their flower-stalks to the sun. Among the sere yellow grass and the dry gray stems of all herbs which were not snapped by the autumnal storm, the first green shimmers. It is at this time that the settlers and the nomads set fire to the thick herbage of various sorts, and what the storms have spared the flames devour. But soon after the fire has cleared the ground, the plant-life reappears, in patches at least, in all its vigour. From the apparently sterile earth herbaceous and bulbous growths shoot up; buds are unpacked, flowers unfold, and the steppe arrays itself in indescribable splendour. Boundless tracts are resplendent with tulips, yellow, dark red, white, white and red. It is true that they rise singly or in twos and threes, but they are spread over the whole steppe-land, and flower at the same time, so that one sees them everywhere. Immediately after the tulips come the lilies, and new, even more charming colours appear wherever these lovely children of the steppes find the fit conditions for growth, on the hillsides and in the deep valleys, along the banks of all the streams, and in the marshes. More gregarious and richer in species than the tulips, they appear in much more impressive multitudes; they completely dominate wide stretches of country, and in different places remind one of a rye-field overgrown with corn-flowers, or of a rape-field in full blossom. Usually each species or variety is by itself, but here and there blue lilies and yellow are gaily intermingled, the two complementary colours producing a most impressive effect--a vision for rapture.

While these first-born children of the spring are adorning the earth, the heavens also begin to smile. Unclouded the spring sky certainly is not, rather it is covered with clouds of all sorts, even in the finest weather with bedded clouds and wool-packs, which stretch more or less thickly over the whole dome of heaven, and around the horizon appear to touch the ground. When these clouds thicken the heavens darken, and only here and there does the sunlight pierce the curtain and show the steppes warmed by the first breath of spring, and flushed with inconceivable wealth of colour.

But every day adds some new tint. There is less and less of the yellowish tone which last year’s withered stalks give even in spring to the steppes; the garment already so bright continues to gain in freshness and brightness. After a few weeks, the steppe-land lies like a gay carpet in which all tints show distinctly, from dark green to bright yellow-green, the predominant gray-green of the wormwoods being relieved by the deeper and brighter tones of more prominent herbs and dwarf-shrubs. The dwarf-almond, which, alone or in association with the pea-tree and the honeysuckle, covers broad stretches of low ground, is now, along with its above-mentioned associates, in all its glory. Its twigs are literally covered all over with blossom; the whole effect is a shimmer of peach-red, in lively contrast to the green of the grass and herbage, to the bloom of the pea-trees, and even to the delicate rose-red or reddish-white of the woodbine. In suitable places the woodbine forms quite a thicket, and, when in full bloom, seems to make of all surrounding colour but a groundwork on which to display its own brilliancy. Various, and to me unknown, shrubs and herbs give high and low tones to the picture, and the leaves of others, which wither as rapidly as they unfold, become spots of yellow-green and gold. Seen from a distance, all the colours do indeed merge into an almost uniform gray-green; but near at hand each colour tells, and one sees the countless individual flowers which have now opened, sees them singly everywhere, but also massed together in more favourable spots, where they make the shades of the bushes glorious. Amid the infinite variety of bulbous plants there are exquisite vetches; among many that are unfamiliar there are old friends well known in our flower-gardens; more and more does the feeling of enchantment grow on one, until at last it seems as if one had wandered into an unending, uncared-for garden of flowers.

With the spring and the flowers the animal life of the steppes appears also to awaken. Even before the last traces of winter are gone, the migratory birds, which fled in autumn, have returned, and when the spring has begun in earnest the winter sleepers open the doors of the burrows within which they have slumbered in death-like trance through all the evil days. As the migratory birds rejoin the residents, so the sleepers come forth and join those mammals which are either careless of winter or know how to survive it at least awake. At the same time the insects celebrate their Easter, hastening from their hidden shelters or accomplishing the last phase of their metamorphosis; and now, too, the newts and frogs, lizards and snakes leave their winter quarters to enjoy in the spring sunshine the warmth indispensable to their activity and full life, and to dream of the summer which will bring them an apathetic happiness.

The steppe now becomes full of life. Not that the animal life is of many types, but it is abundant and everywhere distributed. The same forms are met with everywhere, and missed nowhere. There are here no hosts of mammals comparable to the herds of antelopes on the steppes of Central Africa, nor to the troops of zebras and quaggas[17] in the South African karoo, nor to the immeasurable trains of buffaloes on the North American prairies;[18] nor are the birds of the steppes so numerous as those on the continental shores or on single islands, or on the African steppes, or in equatorial forests. But both birds and mammals enter into the composition of a steppe landscape; they help to form and complete the peculiarity of this region; in short, the steppes also have their characteristic fauna.

The places at which the animals chiefly congregate are the lakes and pools, rivers and brooks. Before the existence of a lake is revealed by the periodically or permanently flooded reed-forests surrounding it, hundreds and thousands of marsh-birds and swimmers have told the practised observer of the still invisible sheet of water. In manifoldly varied flight, fishing-gulls, common gulls, and herring-gulls sweep and glide over its surface; more rapidly and less steadily do the terns pursue the chase over the reeds and the pools which these inclose; in mid-air the screaming eagles circle; ducks, geese, and swans fly from one part of the lake to another; kites hover over the reeds; even sea-eagles and pelicans now and then show face. As to the actual inhabitants of these lakes, as to the number of species and individuals, one can only surmise until one has stationed oneself on the banks, or penetrated into the thicket of reeds. In the salt-steppe, as is readily intelligible, the animal life is sparser. With hasty flight most of the water-birds pass over the inhospitable, salt-covered shores, as they wend from lake to lake; only the black-headed gulls and fishing-gulls are willing to rest for a time by the not wholly dry, but shallow, briny basins; only the sheldrake fishes there in company with the charming avocet, who seeks out just these very places, and, living in pairs or small companies, spends his days stirring up the salt water, swinging his delicate head with upturned bill from side to side indefatigably. Of other birds I only saw a few, a yellow or white wagtail, a lapwing, a plover; the rest seem to avoid the uninviting desolateness of these brine pools, all the more that infinitely more promising swamps and pools are to be found quite near them. About the lake itself abundant food seems to be promised to all comers. Thus not only do thousands of marsh and water birds settle on its surface, but even the little songsters and passerine birds, unprovided for by the dry steppes, come hither. Not the fishers alone, but other hungry birds of prey find here their daily bread. The steppe-lakes cannot indeed be compared with those of North Africa, where, during winter, the feathered tribes of three-quarters of the globe have their great rendezvous, nor with the equatorial water-basins, which are thronged by hundreds of thousands of birds at every season, nor even with the marsh-lands of the Danube, where, all through the summer, countless children of the air find rest; in proportion to the extent of water in the steppes the number of winged settlers may seem small, but the bird-fauna is really very considerable, and the lakes of the steppes have also a certain uniqueness in regard to the nesting-places chosen by the birds.

Here every creature has its home among the reeds: the wolf and the boar, the eagle and the wild-goose, the kite and the swan, the raven and the mallard, the gadwall or teal, the thrush and the white-throat, the reed-tit and the sparrow, the reed-bunting and the ortolan, the willow wren and the blue-throated warbler, the lesser kestrel and the red-footed falcon, the crane and the lapwing, the shrike and the snipe, the starling, the yellow and white wagtails, the quail and the kingfisher, the great white heron and the spoonbill, the cormorant and the pelican. The reed-thickets afford home and shelter to all; they take the place of woods in affording hiding and security; in their retreats the secrets of love are told, and the joys of family life are expressed, exuberant rejoicings are uttered, and the tenderest cares are fulfilled; they are the cradles and the schools of the young.

Of the mammals which congregate among the reeds one usually sees only the tracks, provided, of course, that one does not resort to forceful measures and ransack the thicket with dogs. Of the flitting bird-life, however, in its general features at least, the practised eye of the naturalist may at any time obtain a lively picture.

When we leave the dry steppes and approach a lake, the widely-distributed larks disappear, and their place is taken by the plovers, whose plaintive cries fall mournfully on the ear. One of them may be seen running by fits and starts along the ground, with the characteristic industry of its race, stopping here and there to pick up some minute booty, and then running off again as swiftly as ever. Before we reach the reeds we see the black-headed gulls, probably also the common gulls, and, in favourable circumstances, even a great black-backed gull. The first fly far into the steppes to seek out the grazing herds, and are equally decorative whether they sweep gracefully over and around them in thick crowds, catching in their flight the insects which the grazing beasts have disturbed, or whether they run behind the herd like white pigeons seeking their food in the fields. Near the reeds we also see one or other of the wild-geese--a male who for a short time has left his mate sitting upon the eggs, to graze, while it is still possible, on the grassy patches near the reed-thicket. Soon, however, parental cares, in which all ganders share, will recall him to the recesses of the willows close by the lake, to the nook where the careful parents have their gray-greenish-yellow goslings well hidden. Over all the flooded shallows there is a more active life. On the margins of the pools small littoral birds have their well-chosen fighting-grounds. Fighting-ruffs,[19] now arrayed in their gayest dress, meet there in combat; with depressed head each directs his beak like a couched lance against the bright neck-collar which serves his foe for shield. The combatants stand in most defiant attitudes, irresistibly amusing to us; for a moment they look at one another with their sharp eyes and then make a rush, each making a thrust, and at the same time receiving one on his feathery shield. But none of the heroes is in any way injured, and none allows the duelling to interfere with less exciting business; for if, during the onslaught, one see a fly just settling on a stem, he does not allow it to escape him, and his opponent is equally attentive to the swimming beetle darting about on the surface of a small pool; hastily they run, one here and the other there, seize the booty which they spied, and return refreshed to the fray. Meantime, however, other combatants have taken the field, and the fight seems as if it would never have an end. But suddenly a marsh-harrier comes swooping along, and the heroes hastily quit the field; they rise together in close-packed flight, and hurry to another pond, there to repeat the same old game. The dreaded harrier is the terror of all the other birds of the lake. At his approach the weaker ducks rise noisily, and, a moment later, their stronger relatives, more disturbed by the ducks than by the bird of prey, rise impetuously, and with whizzing beating of wings, circle several times over the lake and sink again in detachments. With trilling call the redshanks also rise, and with them the snipe, whose cry, though tuneless, is audible from afar. The robber sweeps past all too near, but both redshank and snipe forget his menace as soon as they reach a safe height; they seem to feel only the golden spring-tide and the joy of love which now dominates them. For the redshank sinks suddenly to the water far beneath, flutters, and hovers with his wings hanging downwards and forwards, rises again with insistent calls and sinks once more, until a response from his mate near by invites him to cease from his love-play and to hasten to her. So is it also with the snipe, who, after he has ended his zigzag flight, and ascended to twice the height of a tower, lets himself fall suddenly. In the precipitous descent he broadens out his tail, and opposes the flexible, narrow, pointed lateral feathers to the resisting air, thus giving rise to that bleating noise to which he owes his quaint name of sky-goat.[20] Only a pair of the exceedingly long-legged black-winged stilts, which were pursuing their business in apparently aristocratic isolation from the throng, have remained undisturbed by the marsh-harrier; perhaps they saw the bold black-headed gulls hastening to drive off the disturber of the peace. Moreover, a Montagu’s harrier and a steppe-harrier have united their strength against the marsh-harrier, whom they hate with a bitterness proportionate to his near relationship. Without hesitation the robber makes for the open country, and next minute there is the wonted whistling and warbling, scolding and cackling over the water. Already there is a fresh arrival of visitors, drawn by that curiosity common to all social birds, and also, of course, by the rich table which these lakes afford.

When at length we reach the thicket of reeds the smaller birds become more conspicuous, the larger forms being more effectively concealed. The crane, which breeds on the most inaccessible spots, the great white heron, which fishes on the inner margin of the thicket, the spoonbill, which forages for food on the shallowest stretches among the reeds, all these keep themselves as far as possible in concealment, and of the presence of the bittern in the very heart of the reeds we are aware only by his muffled booming. On the other hand, all the small birds to which I have referred expose themselves to view almost without any wariness, singing and exulting in their loudest notes. The yellow wagtails run about confidently on the meadow-like plots of grass around the outer margin of the thicket; that marvel of prettiness, the bearded titmouse, climbs fearlessly up and down on the reeds, whose tops are graced here by a redbreast and there by a gray shrike. From all sides the cheerful, though but slightly melodious song of the sedge-warblers strikes the ear, and we listen with pleasure to the lay of the black-throated thrush, to the lovely singing of the blue-throat, the wood-wren, and the icterine warbler, and to the call of the cuckoo. On the open pools among the reeds there is sure to be a pair of coots swimming with their young brood, and where the water is deeper there is perchance an eared grebe among the various kinds of ducks. When it draws to evening the red-footed falcon, the lesser kestrel, the starlings and the rose-starlings also seek the thicket for the night, and of chattering and fussing there is no end. Even the spotted eagle, the raven, and the hooded-crow appear as guests for the night, and, on the inner margins at least, the cormorant and the pelican rest from their fishing.

Finally, over the surface of the lake the gulls fly and hover, the terns dart hither and thither, the ernes and ospreys pursue their prey, and, where the water is not too deep, the pelicans and swans vie in their fishing industry with the greedy cormorants and grebes.

The beds of streams fringed with trees and bushes are hardly less rich in life. The trees bear the nests of large and small birds of prey, and serve also for their perches. From their tops may be heard the resonant call of the golden oriole, the song of the thrush, the laughter of the woodpecker, and the cooing of the ring-dove and stock-dove; while from the thick undergrowth the glorious song of the nightingale is poured forth with such clearness and power, that even the fastidious ear of the critic listens in rapture to the rare music. On the surface of the stream many different kinds of water-birds swim about as on the lake; among the bushes on the banks there is the same gay company that we saw among the reeds; the lesser white-throat chatters, the white-throat and the barred warbler sing their familiar songs.

When we traverse the dry stretches of the steppes we see another aspect of animal life. Again it is the bird-life which first claims attention. At least six, and perhaps eight species of larks inhabit the steppes, and give life to even the dreariest regions. Uninterruptedly does their song fall on the traveller’s ear; from the ground and from the tops of the small bushes it rises; from morning to evening the rich melody is poured forth from the sky. It seems to be only one song which one hears, for the polyphonous calandra lark takes the strophes of our sky-lark and of the white-winged lark and combines them with its own, nor despises certain notes of the black lark, the red lark, and the short-toed lark, but blends all the single songs with its own, yet without drowning the song of its relatives, no matter how loudly it may pour forth its own and its borrowed melodies. When, in spring, we listen enraptured to our own sky-larks in the meadows, and note how one sweet singer starts up after another in untiring sequence, heralding the spring with inspired and inspiring song, we hardly fancy that all that we can hear at home is surpassed a hundredfold on the steppes. Yet so it is, for here is the true home of the larks; one pair close beside another, one species and then another, or different kinds living together, and in such numbers that the broad steppes seem to have scarce room enough to hold them all. But the larks are not the only inhabitants of these regions. For proportionately numerous are the lark’s worst enemies, full of menace to the dearly loved young brood--the harriers, characteristic birds of the steppes. Whatever region we visit we are sure to see one or another of these birds of prey, in the north Montagu’s harrier, in the south the steppe-harrier, hurrying over his province, sweeping along near the ground in wavy, vacillating flight. Not unfrequently, over a broad hollow, four, six, eight or more may be seen at once absorbed in the chase. Even more abundant, but not quite so widely distributed, are two other children of the steppes, almost identical in nature and habits, and vieing with one another in beauty, grace of form, and vigour of movement,--the lesser kestrel and the red-footed falcon. Wherever there is a perching-place for these charming creatures, where a telegraph-line traverses the country, or where a rocky hillock rises from the plain, there they are sure to be seen. As good-natured as they are gregarious, unenvious of each other’s gain, though they pursue the same booty, these falcons wage indefatigable war against insects of all sorts, from the voracious grasshopper to the small beetle. There they sit, resting and digesting, yet keeping a sharp look-out meanwhile; as soon as they spy booty they rise, and after an easy and dexterous flight begin to glide, then, stopping, they hover, with scarce perceptible vibrations, right over one spot, until, from the height, they are able to fasten their eyes surely on their prey. This done, they precipitate themselves like a falling stone, seize, if they are fortunate, the luckless insect, tear it and devour it as they fly, and, again swinging themselves aloft, proceed as before. Not unfrequently ten or twelve of both species may be seen hunting over the same spot, and their animated behaviour cannot fail to attract and fascinate the observer’s gaze. Every day and all day one comes across them, for hours at a time one may watch them, and always there is a fresh charm in studying their play; they are as characteristic parts of the steppe picture as the salt lake, the tulip or the lily, as the dwarf shrub, the tschi-grass, or the white wool-packs in the heavens. Characteristic also is the rose-starling, beautifully coloured representative of the familiar frequenter of our houses and gardens. He is the eager and successful enemy of the greedy grasshopper, the truest friend of the grazing herds, the untiring guardian of the crops and thus man’s sworn ally, an almost sacred bird in the eyes of those who inhabit the steppes. Notable also is the sand-grouse, a connecting link between fowl and pigeon,[21] which, with other members of its family, is especially at home in the desert. Not less noteworthy are the great bustard, its handsomer relative the ruffed bustard, and the little bustard. The last-named is of special interest to us, because a few years ago it wandered into Germany as far as Thuringia, where it now, as in the steppe, adds a unique charm to the landscape as it discloses its full beauty in whizzing flight. Other beautifully coloured, and indeed really splendid birds inhabit the steppes--the lovely bee-eater and roller, which live on the steep banks of the streams along with falcons and pigeons, the bunting and the scarlet bullfinch, which shelter among the tschi-grass and herbage, and many others. Even the swallows are not absent from this region in which stable human dwellings are so rare. That the sand-martin should make its burrows in all the steeper banks of the lakes will not seem strange to the ornithologist, but it is worthy of note that the swallow and martins are still in process of transition from free-living to semi-domesticated birds, that they still fix their nests to the cliffs, but leave these to establish themselves wherever the Kirghiz rear a tomb, and that the martins seek hospitality even in the tent or _yurt_.[22] They find it, too, when the Kirghiz is able to settle long enough to allow the eggs to hatch and the young to become fledged, in a nest fixed to the cupola ring of his hut.