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Chapter 2 Graphs, Charts and Tables—Describing Your Data

1) For the same data, a graph of a relative frequency distribution will look exactly the same as a graph of
the frequency distribution.
Answer: TRUE
Diff: 1
Keywords: graph, relative, frequency, distribution
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

2) When choosing class boundaries for a frequency distribution, classes such as 60-70, 70-80, 80-90
would be acceptable.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 1
Keywords: frequency distribution, classes
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

3) Recently a survey was conducted in which customers of a large insurance company were asked to
indicate the number of speeding tickets they had received in the past three years. The data in this case
would most likely be analyzed using a frequency distribution with the data grouped into classes such as
0-2, 3-5, 6-8, etc.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: frequency, distribution, classes
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

4) Recently a survey was conducted in which customers of a large insurance company were asked to
indicate the number of speeding tickets they had received in the past three years. The minimum value in
the data was zero and the largest was six tickets. If you wished to illustrate the proportion of people
who had three or fewer tickets, you would most likely construct a cumulative relative frequency
distribution. Answer: TRUE
2-1
Diff: 2
Keywords: cumulative, relative, frequency distribution
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

5) Frequency distributions are specifically for analyzing discrete data.

Answer: FALSE
Diff: 1
Keywords: frequency, distribution, discrete
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

2-2
6) When developing a frequency distribution, the following bin classifications follow the definition of
appropriate intervals of a variable:
0 to < 10
10 to < 20
20 to < 25
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 1
Keywords: frequency distribution, classes
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

7) It is often a good idea to convert frequency distributions to relative frequency distributions when you
wish to compare two distributions with different amounts of data.
Answer: TRUE
Diff: 1
Keywords: relative, frequency, distribution
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

8) In a report describing the number of people in the family of each of the 400 employees at a
manufacturing company, the frequency count at the value 3 was 220. This means that the
relative frequency at the 3 level is .44.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 1
Keywords: relative, frequency
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

9) One way to develop a frequency distribution using Excel is to use the Frequency function.
Answer: TRUE
Diff: 2
Keywords: frequency, distribution, Excel
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

10) There is no difference between cumulative frequency and relative

frequency. Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: frequency
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

2-3
11) A study of 2000 Verizon cellphone customers listed the annual incomes of the customers as well
as other variables. The lowest income was $25,000 and the highest income was $145,000. To develop a
frequency distribution with 6 classes, the smallest value that the class width can be is 20K.
Answer: TRUE
Diff: 2
Keywords: frequency, distribution, class, width
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

12) A cumulative frequency distribution shows the percentage of observations for the variable of
interest with values less than or equal to the upper limit of each class.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: cumulative, frequency, distribution
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

13) In constructing a frequency distribution for the savings account balances for customers at a bank,
the following class boundaries might be acceptable if the minimum balance is $5.00 and the maximum
balance is $18,700:
$0.00 - $5,000
$5,000 - 10,000
$10,000 - $15,000
$15,000 - $20,000
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 1
Keywords: frequency, distribution, class, boundary
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

14) The appropriate number of classes should generally be between 5 and 20.
Answer: TRUE
Diff: 2
Keywords: frequency distribution, classes
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

15) Once you have determined the class width using the formula, high-low divided by the number of
classes, it is appropriate to round to the nearest integer to make the analysis easier.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: class, width, formula
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

2-4
16) There is no hard-and-fast rule regarding the number of classes that must be used when establishing a
frequency distribution for a continuous variable.
Answer: TRUE
Diff: 1
Keywords: class, frequency, distribution, continuous
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

17) The upper and lower limits of each class in a frequency distribution are also referred to as the
data array.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: class, frequency, distribution, array
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

18) The following class limits would be acceptable for developing a frequency distribution on income:
$0 < $5,000
$5001 < $10,000
$10,001 < $20,000
Over $20,000
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: class, limit, frequency, distribution
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

19) A histogram can be created for discrete or continuous

data. Answer: TRUE
Diff: 1
Keywords: histogram
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 1

20) In a recent study at First National Bank, a frequency count was made for the variable marital status
for the bank's 10,000 customers. It would also be appropriate to develop a histogram for this variable
to show how marital status is distributed.
Answer: FALSE
Diff: 2
Keywords: frequency, histogram, distribution
Section: 2-1 Frequency Distributions and Histograms
Outcome: 2

2-5
Another document from Scribd.com that is
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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.
 Fig. 13.—Lake Scene and Water-fowl in an Asiatic Steppe.

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.
But in these regions, whose bird-life I have been describing, there are
other animals. Apart from the troublesome mosquitoes, flies, gadflies,
wasps, and other such pests, there are only a few species of insects, but
most of these are very numerous and are distributed over the whole of
the wide area. The same is true of the reptiles; thus in the region which
we traversed we found only a few species of lizards and snakes. Among
the latter we noted especially two venomous species, our common viper
and the halys-viper; neither indeed occurred in multitudes like the
lizards, but both were none the less remarkably abundant. Several times
every day as we rode through the steppe would one and the other of the
Kirghiz who accompanied us bend from his horse with drawn knife, and
slash the head off one of these snakes. I remember, too, that, at a little
hill-town in the northern Altai, a place called “Schlangenberg” [or
Snakemount], we wished to know whether the place had a good right to
its name, and that the answer was almost embarrassingly convincing, so
abundant was the booty with which those whom we had sent in quest
soon returned. We had no longer any reason to doubt the truth of the tale
according to which the place owed its name to the fact that, before the
town was founded, the people collected thousands and thousands of
venomous snakes and burned them. Amphibians and small mammals
seem much rarer than reptiles; of the former we saw only a species of
toad, and of the latter, several mice, a souslik, two blind mole-rats, and
the dainty jerboa, popularly known as the jumping-mouse.
The sousliks and the jerboas are
most charming creatures. The
former especially are often
characteristic features of steppe-
life, for in favourable places they
readily become gregarious, and,
like the related marmots, form
important settlements. It is usually
towards evening that one sees
them, each sitting at the door of his
burrow. On the approach of the
waggon or train of riders they
hastily beat a retreat, inquisitively
they raise their heads once more,
and then, at the proper moment,
they vanish like a flash into their
burrows, only to reappear,
however, a few minutes later,
Fig. 14.—The Souslik (Spermophilus citillus).
(⅓ natural size.) peering out cautiously as if to see
whether the threatened danger had
passed safely by. Their behaviour
expresses a continual wavering between curiosity and timidity, and the
latter is fully justified, since, apart from man, there are always wolves
and foxes, imperial eagles and spotted eagles, on their track. Indeed one
may be sure that the sousliks are abundant when one sees an imperial
eagle perching on the posts by the wayside or on the trees by a village.
The jerboa—by far the prettiest of the steppe-mammals—is much less
frequently seen, not indeed because he occurs less frequently, but
because, as a nocturnal animal, he only shows himself after sunset.
About this time, or later if the
moon be favourable, one may see
the charming creature steal
cautiously from his hole. He
stretches himself, and then, with his
pigmy fore-limbs pressed close to
his breast, trots off on his
kangaroo-like hind-legs, going as if
on stilts, balancing his slim erect
body by help of his long hair-
fringed tail. Jerkily and not very
rapidly the jerboa jumps along the
ground, resting here and there for a
little, sniffing at things and
touching them with its long
whisker-hairs, as he seeks for
suitable food. Here he picks out a
grain of seed, and there he digs out Fig. 15.—The Jerboa (Alactaga jaculus).
a bulb; they say of him also that he (⅓ natural size.)
will not disdain carrion, that he will
plunder a bird’s nest, steal the eggs
and young of those which nest on the ground, and even hunt smaller
rodents, from all which accusations I cannot venture to vindicate him.
Precise and detailed observation of his natural life is difficult, for, his
senses being keen and his intelligence slight, timidity and shyness are his
most prominent qualities. As soon as man appears in what seems
dangerous proximity, the creature takes to flight, and it is useless to try to
follow; even on horseback one could scarce overtake him. With great
bounds he hurries on, jerking out his long hind-legs, with his long tail
stretched out as a rudder; bound after bound he goes, and, before one has
rightly seen how he began or whither he went, he has disappeared in the
darkness.[23]
The fauna of the steppe-mountains differs from that of the low-grounds,
differs at least, when, instead of gentle slopes or precipitous rocky walls,
there are debris-covered hillsides, wild deeply-cut gorges, and rugged
plantless summits. In the narrow, green valleys, through which a brook
flows or trickles, the sheldrake feeds—an exceedingly graceful,
beautiful, lively bird, scarce larger than a duck—the characteristic duck
of the central Asiatic mountains. From the niches of the rocks is heard
the cooing of a near relative of the rock-dove, which is well known to be
ancestor of our domestic pigeons; from the rough blocks on which the
wheatear, the rock-bunting, and the rock-grosbeak flit busily, the
melodious song of the rock-thrush streams forth. Around the peaks the
cheerful choughs flutter; above them the golden-eagle circles by day, and
the horned owl flies silently as a ghost by night, both bent on catching
one of the exceedingly abundant rock ptarmigan, or, it may be, a careless
marmot. More noteworthy, however, is the Archar of the Kirghiz, one of
the giant wild sheep of Central Asia, the same animal that I had the good
fortune to shoot on the Arkat mountains.
According to the reports which I gathered after careful cross-
examination of the Kirghiz, the archar occurs not only here, but also on
other not very lofty ranges of the western Siberian steppes. They are said
to go in small troops of five to fifteen head, rams and ewes living in
separate companies until the breeding season. Each troop keeps its own
ground unless it be startled or disturbed; in which case it hastens from
one range to another, yet never very far. Towards sunset the herd
ascends, under the guidance of the leader, to the highest peaks, there to
sleep in places scarce accessible to other creatures; at sunrise, both old
and young descend to the valleys to graze and to drink at chosen springs;
at noon, they lie down to rest and ruminate in the shade of the rocks, in
places which admit of open outlook; towards evening they descend again
to graze. Such is their daily routine both in summer and winter. They eat
such plants as domesticated sheep are fond of, and they are, when needs
must, easily satisfied; but even in winter they rarely suffer from want,
and in spring they become so vigorous that from that season until autumn
they are fastidious, and will eat only the most palatable herbs. Their
usual mode of motion is a rapid, exceedingly expeditious trot; and even
when frightened they do not quicken their steps very markedly unless a
horseman pursue them. Then they always take to the rocks and soon
make their escape. When in flight either on the plain or on the mountains
they almost always keep in line, one running close behind another, and,
if suddenly surprised and scattered, they re-form in linear order as
speedily as possible. Among the rocks they move, whether going
upwards or downwards, with surprising ease, agility, and confidence.
Without any apparent strain, without any trace of hurry, they clamber up
and down almost vertical paths, leap wide chasms, and pass from the
heights to the valley almost as if they were birds and could fly. When
they find themselves pursued, they stand still from time to time, clamber
to a loftier peak to secure a wider prospect, and then go on their way so
calmly that it seems as if they mocked their pursuer. Consciousness of
their strength and climbing powers seems to give them a proud
composure. They never hurry, and have no cause to regret their
deliberation except when they come within shot of the lurking
ambuscade or the stealthy stalker.

Fig. 16.—Archar Sheep or Argali (Ovis Argali).

The sheep live at peace together throughout the year, and the rams only
fight towards the breeding season. This occurs in the second half of
October and lasts for almost a month. At this time the high-spirited,
combative rams become greatly excited. The seniors make a stand and
drive off all their weaker fellows. With their equals they fight for life or
death. The rivals stand opposed in menacing attitudes; rearing on their
hind-legs they rush at one another, and the crash of powerful horns is
echoed in a dull rumble among the rocks. Sometimes it happens that they
entangle one another, for the horns may interlock inseparably, and both
perish miserably; or one ram may hurl the other over a precipice, where
he is surely dashed to pieces.
During the last days of April or the first of May the ewe brings forth a
single lamb or a pair. These lambs, as we found out from captive ones,
are able in a few hours to run with their mother, and in a few days they
follow her over all the paths, wherever she leads them, with the innate
agility and surefootedness characteristic of their race. When serious
danger threatens, the mother hides them in the nooks of the rocks, where
the enemy may perchance overlook their presence. She returns, of
course, after she has successfully eluded the foe. The lambkin, pressed
close to the ground, lies as still as a mouse, and, looking almost like a
stone, may often escape detection; but not by any means always is he
safe, least of all from the golden eagle, which often seizes and kills a
lamb which the mother has left unprotected. So we observed when
hunting on the Arkat Mountains. Captive archar lambs which we got
from the Kirghiz were most delightful creatures, and showed by the
ready way in which they took to the udders of their foster-mothers that
they might have been reared without special difficulty. Should it prove
possible to bring the proud creatures into domestication the acquisition
would be one of the greatest value. But of this the Kirghiz does not
dream, he thinks only of how he may shoot this wild sheep or the other.
Not that the chase of this powerful animal is what one could call a
passion with him; indeed the sheep’s most formidable enemy is the wolf,
and it is only in the deep snow in winter that even he manages to catch
an archar.
Fig. 17.—Pallas’s Sand-grouse (Syrrhaptes paradoxus).
As on the mountains, so on the driest, dreariest stretches of the steppes,
which even in spring suggest African deserts, there are characteristic
animals. In such places almost all the plants of the highlands and valleys
disappear except the low tufted grass and diminutive bushes of
wormwood. Here, however, grows a remarkable shrub which one does
not see elsewhere, a shrub called ramwood on account of its extreme
hardness and toughness, which baffles the axe. It roots on those rare
spots in the wilderness where the rain-storms have washed together some
poor red clay. There it sometimes grows into bushwork of considerable
extent, affording shelter and shade to other plants, so that these green
spots come to look like little oases in the desert. But these oases are no
more lively than the dreary steppes around, for apart from a shrike, the
white-throat, and a wood-wren, one sees no bird, and still less any
mammal. On the other hand, amid the desolation there live some of the
most notable of the steppe animals, along with others which occur
everywhere; besides the short-toed lark and calandra lark there is the
coal-black Tartar lark, which those aware of the general colour-
resemblance between ground-birds and the ground would naturally look
for on the black earth. Along with the small plover there is the gregarious
lapwing, along with the great bustard the slender ruffed bustard, which
the Kirghiz call the ambler, along with the sand-grouse there is Pallas’s
sand-grouse or steppe-grouse.[24] It was this last bird which some years
ago migrated in large numbers into Germany and settled on the dunes
and sandy places, but was so inhospitably received by us, so ruthlessly
persecuted with guns, snares, and even poison, that it forsook our
inhuman country and probably returned to its home. Here, too, along
with the specially abundant souslik, there are steppe antelopes and the
Kulan, the fleet wild horse of the steppes. I must restrict myself to giving
a brief sketch of the last, so as not to overstep too far the limits of the
time allowed me.
If Darwin’s general conclusions be reliable, we may perhaps regard the
kulan as the ancestor of our horse, which has been gradually improved
by thousands of years of breeding and selection. This supposition is more
satisfactory than the vague and unsupported assertion that the ancestor of
our noblest domestic animal has been lost, and to me it is more credible
than the opinion which finds in the Tarpan which roams to-day over the
Dnieper steppes an original wild horse, and not merely one that has
reverted to wildness.[25] As recent investigations in regard to our dogs,
whose various breeds we cannot compute with even approximate
accuracy, point to their origin from still existing species of wolf and
jackal, my conclusion in regard to the horse acquires collateral
corroboration. Moreover, the ancestor of our domestic cat, now at last
recognized, still lives in Africa, and the ancestor of our goat in Asia
Minor and in Crete.[26] As to the pedigree of our sheep and cattle we
cannot yet decide with certainty, but I have consistent information from
three different quarters, including the report of a Kirghiz who declared
that he had himself hunted the animal, to the effect that in the heart of the
steppes of Mongolia there still lives a camel with all the characteristics
of wildness.[27] I cannot doubt the truth of the reports which I received,
and the only question is, whether this camel represents the original stock
still living in a wild state, or whether, like the tarpan, it be only an
offshoot of the domesticated race which has returned to wild life. As the
veil is slowly being lifted which hid, and still hides, the full truth from
our inquiring eyes, as the ancestors of our domesticated animals are
being discovered one after the other, and that among species still living,
why should we suppose that the ancestor of the horse, the conditions of
whose life correspond so thoroughly with those of the broad measureless
steppes, has died out without leaving a trace? It is, I maintain, among the
still living wild horses of the Old World that we must look for the
progenitor of our horse, and among these none has more claims to the
honour of being regarded as the ancestor of this noble creature than the
kulan. It may be that the tarpan more closely resembles our horse, but, if
it be true that the Hyksos brought the horse to the ancient Egyptians
(from whose stone records we have our first knowledge of the
domesticated animal), or that the Egyptians themselves tamed the horse
before the time of the Hyksos, and therefore at least one and a half
thousand years before our era, then certainly the race had not its origin in
the steppes of the Dnieper and the Don. For nearer at hand, namely in the
steppes and deserts of Asia Minor, Palestine, and Persia, and in several
valleys of Arabia and India, they had a wild horse full of promise, one
which still lives, our kulan. This differs indeed in several features from
our horse, but not more than the greyhound, the poodle, or the
Newfoundland differs from the wolf or any other wild dog, not more
than the dachshund, the terrier, or the spaniel from the jackal, not more
than the pony from the Arabian horse, or the Belgian-French cart-horse
from the English racer. The differences between our domesticated horse
and the wild form which seems to me its most probable ancestor are
indeed important, but horse and kulan seem to regard themselves as
belonging to the same blood, since they seek each other’s company.
When, on the 3rd June, 1876, we were riding through the dreary desert
steppes between the Saisan lake and the Altai—a region from which I
have drawn the main features of the above sketch—we saw in the course
of the forenoon no fewer than fifteen kulans. Among these we observed
one pair in particular. They stood on the broad crest of a near hillock,
their forms sharply defined against the blue sky, and powerfully did they
raise the desire for the chase in us and in our companion Kirghiz. One of
them made off as we appeared, and trotted towards the mountain; the
other stood quietly, and seemed as if considering a dilemma, then raised
its head once and again, and at last came running towards us. All guns
were at once in hand; the Kirghiz slowly and carefully formed a wide
semicircle with the intention of driving the strangely stupid and
inconceivably careless creature towards us. Nearer and nearer, halting
now and then, but still steadily nearer he came, and we already looked
upon him as a sure captive. But a smile broke over the face of the
Kirghiz riding beside me; he had not only discovered the motive of the
creature’s apparently foolish behaviour, he had recognized the animal
itself. It was a Kirghiz horse, dappled like a kulan, which, having strayed
from his master’s herd, had fallen in with wild horses, and, for lack of
better company, had stayed with them. In our horses he had recognized
his kin, and had therefore forsaken his friends in need. Having come
quite near to the Kirghiz, he stopped again as if to reflect whether he
should once more yield his newly-healed back to the galling saddle; but
the first steps towards return were followed by others, and without an
attempt at flight he allowed them to halter him, and in a few minutes he
was trotting as docilely by the side of one of the horsemen as if he had
never known the free life of his ancestors. Thus we were able to confirm
by personal experience the already accepted fact, that horse and kulan do
sometimes keep company.
The kulan is a proud, fascinating creature, full of dignity, strength, and
high spirits. He stares curiously at the horseman who approaches him;
and then, as if deriding the pursuer, trots off leisurely, playfully lashing
his flanks with his tail. If the rider spurs his horse to full speed, the kulan
takes to a gallop as easy as it is swift, which bears him like the wind over
the steppes and soon carries him out of sight. But even when at full
speed he now and again suddenly pulls himself up, halts for a moment,
jerks round with his face to the pursuer, neighs, and then, turning, kicks
his heels defiantly in the air, and bounds off with the same ease as
before. A fugitive troop always orders itself in line, and it is beautiful to
see them suddenly halt at a signal from the leader, face round, and again
take to flight.

Fig. 18.—The Kulan (Equus hemionus).

As among all horses, each troop of kulans has a stallion for leader, and
he is the absolute master of them all. He leads the troop to pasture as
well as in flight, he turns boldly on carnivores which are not superior in
force, he permits no quarrelling among his followers, and tolerates no
rival, indeed no other adult male in the herd. In every district which the
kulans frequent, solitary individuals are to be seen unaccompanied by
any troop; they are stallions which have been vanquished and driven off
after furious and protracted combats, and which must roam about alone
until the next breeding season. In September they again approach the
herds, from which the old stallion now drives off the newly-matured
stallions, and a fierce battle begins when they catch sight of an opponent.
For hours at this season they stand on the crests of steep ridges, with
widely-open nostrils raised to the wind, with their eyes on the valley
before them. As soon as the banished one sees another stallion, he rushes
down at full gallop, and fights to exhaustion with both teeth and hoofs.
Should he conquer the leader of a herd, he enters upon his rights, and the
mares follow him as they did his predecessor. After the battles are over
comes the time of wandering, for the hard winter drives the herds from
one place to another, and it is only when spring has fully come that they
return to their old quarters. Here, in the end of May or in the beginning
of June the mare brings forth her foal, which in every respect resembles
that of the domestic horse—a somewhat awkward-looking, but very
nimble and lively creature. We had the good fortune to be able to make
its acquaintance.
On climbing one of the elongated hillocks of these desert-steppes, we
suddenly saw at a short distance three old kulans and a foal, which
seemed to be only a few days old. Our Russian companion fired a shot,
and away rushed the wild horses, with their hoofs scarce touching the
ground, yet exerting their incomparable agility almost with the ease of
play, and obviously keeping themselves in check for the sake of the foal.
Down rushed all the Kirghiz and Cossacks of our company; our
attendants, carried away with the general excitement, also gave chase;
and down we also rushed. It was a wild chase. Still playing with their
strength, the wild horses made for the distant mountains, while all the
riders urged on their steeds to their utmost, till their bellies seemed
almost to touch the ground. The desert resounded with the jubilant cries
of the Kirghiz, the thundering of their horses at full gallop, the neighing
of our slower horses which gnashed at their bridles; fluttering cloaks and
kaftans and whirling clouds of dust filled and enlivened the solitudes.
Further and further rushed the chase. Then the foal separated itself from
its older companions and fell behind; the distance increased between it
and the anxious glance which the mother repeatedly cast back; the
distance between it and our horsemen decreased; and in a few minutes it
was taken. Without resistance it gave itself up to its pursuers; it showed
no trace of the characteristic qualities of the adults—wildness, hardly
governable self-will, and inconquerable roguishness, which often
degenerates into downright spite. Innocently it gazed at us with its large
lively eyes, with apparent pleasure it allowed us to stroke its soft skin,
without resistance it allowed itself to be led along with a halter, in child-
like carelessness it lay down beside us seeking obviously much-needed
rest after the heat of the chase. The charming creature at once captivated
every one. But who was to find a milk-mare to be its foster-mother, who
was to give it rest and care? Both were impossible, and on the second
day the lovable creature was dead. With the passion of sportsmen would
we have killed a full-grown kulan, but to see the foal die gave us genuine
sorrow.
In vain we tried to capture one of the adults; in vain we lay in ambush
beside the bound foal in hopes of inveigling its mother; in vain we tried
to effect something by driving; none of us had any luck. As a sportsman,
I left the dreary solitudes with regret, but as a naturalist I was in the
highest degree satisfied, for there I had come to know the noblest
creature of the steppes.
 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