CHAPTER X
TWO COLONIES OF POLITICAL EXILES
FEW pages in my Siberian note-books are more suggestive of pleasant sensations and experiences than the pages that record the incidents of our life in the mountains of the Altái. As I now turn over the flower-stained leaves dated "Altái Station, August 5, 1885," every feature of that picturesque Cossack village comes back to me so vividly that, if for a moment I close my eyes, I seem to hear again the musical plash and tinkle of the clear, cold streams that tumble through its streets; to see again the magnificent amphitheater of flower-tinted slopes and snowy peaks that encircles it; and to breathe once more the fresh, perfumed air of the green alpine meadow upon which it stands. If the object of our Siberian journey had been merely enjoyment, I think we should have remained at the Altái Station all summer; since neither in Siberia nor in any other country could we have hoped to find a more delightful place for a summer vacation. The pure mountain air was as fragrant and exhilarating as if it had been compounded of perfume and ozone; the beauty and luxuriance of the flora were a never-failing source of pleasure to the eye;[1] the clear, cold mountain streams were full of fish; elk, argali, wild goats, bears, foxes, and wolves were to be found by an enterprising hunter in the wooded ravines and the high mountain valleys south of the station; troops of Kírghis
- ↑ I brought back with me from the Altái an herbarium consisting of nearly a thousand species of flowering plants.
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