Though the steppe of Central Asia is really rich, and may even seem gay to one who visits it in spring, and though it contains much fruitful land, it is nevertheless only its most favoured portions which admit of a settled life, of a continued residence on any one particular spot. Constant wandering, coming and going, appearing and disappearing, is the lot of all the children of the steppe, men and animals alike. Certain portions submit to the labours of the husbandman; in others, towns and villages may be established, but the steppe as a whole must for ever remain the possession of the nomadic herdsman, who knows how to adapt himself to all its conditions of life.

Among these nomadic herdsmen the Kirghiz take the first rank, by virtue both of numbers and of civilization. Their domain extends from the Don and the Volga to the mountains of Thianshan, and from the middle Irtish to south of the Balkhash Lake, indeed, almost to Khiva and Bokhara; they are divided into tribes and hordes, into steppe and mountain herdsmen, but they are one in descent, in language and religion, in manners and customs, however much the various tribes may appear to differ. The smallest or youngest horde wanders throughout the steppe of Orenburg; a branch of the same, calling itself the Buka tribe, traverses the steppe between the Volga and Ural rivers, especially in the governments of Turgai and Ural; the middle or elder horde inhabits the steppes and mountains of the Irtish and Balkhash regions; and finally, extending from beyond the river Ili towards Khiva and Bokhara are to be found the ever-changing dwelling-places of the mountain Kirghiz, who describe themselves as the great, or eldest horde. No branch of these people applies the name Kirgis or Kirghiz to itself, for that is a term of infamy equivalent to “freebooters”. The proper designation of our people is Kaisak, Kasak, or, as we should read it, Cossack, although even the Russians apply the name Cossack to a people quite distinct from the inhabitants of the steppe.

The Kirghiz, as I shall call them nevertheless, are a Turkish people, about whose racial affinities different opinions are held. Many, if not most, travellers look upon them as true Mongolians, while others regard them, probably more correctly, as a mixed race, suggestive of the Mongolians in some particulars, but, on the whole, exhibiting the characteristics of Indo-Germans, and especially resembling the Turkomans. All the Kirghiz I saw belonged to the middle horde, and were well-built people, small, or of medium height, with faces, not beautiful indeed, but not of the caricature-like Mongolian type, neat hands and feet, clear or transparent light-brown or yellowish complexions, brown eyes, and black hair. The cheek-bones are seldom so prominent, or the chin so pointed, as to give an angular or cat-faced appearance; the eye, of medium size, is usually most arched centrally, and drawn out horizontally at the outer angle; it is thus almond-shaped, but not obliquely set; the nose is usually straight, more rarely hooked; the mouth moderate in size and sharply cut, the beard thin, without being actually scanty. True Mongolian features are certainly to be met with also, more especially among the women and children of the poorer class; but, though I have seen very few really beautiful Kirghiz women, I have met with quite as few of the grotesque faces so common among other undoubted Mongols. The characteristics are unmistakably more suggestive of a mixed race than of any one sharply defined stock. I have seen men whom I should unhesitatingly have pronounced to belong to the nobler Indo-Germans if I had known nothing of their kinship, and I have become acquainted with others about the Mongolian cut of whose faces there could be no possible doubt. The members of the older families usually possess all the essential marks of the Indo-Germans, while men of lower descent and meaner extraction often remind one of the Mongols in many details, and may sometimes resemble them completely. The power of Islam, which permits to slaves who have become converts all the rights of the tribe, may in the course of time have made Kirghiz out of many heathen Mongols, and thus not only have influenced, but actually destroyed the racial characteristics of the Kirghiz.

Although the chief features of the Kirghiz dress are Turkish, it is, as a whole, by no means suited for displaying their figure to advantage. In winter the fur cap, fur coat, and thick-legged boots hide all the details of the figure, and even in summer these do not come into prominence. The poorer Kirghiz, in addition to his fur coat and the inevitable fur cap, wears a shirt, kaftan, and wide trousers; the higher class rich man, on the other hand, wears a great many articles of dress one above the other, like the Oriental; but he stuffs all those which envelop the lower part of his body, with the exception of his fur coat, into his wide trousers, so that he may not be impeded in riding. Consequently, the more richly attired he is the more grotesque he looks. They prefer dark colours to light or bright ones, though they do not despise these, and they are fond of decorations of gay embroideries or braiding. Nearly every Kirghiz wears at his girdle a dainty little pocket, richly decorated with iron or silver mountings, and a similarly ornamented knife; beyond these, and the indispensable signet-ring, he wears no decoration unless the Emperor has bestowed one upon him, in the shape of a commemorative medal.

Of the dress of the women I can say little, first, because modesty forbade me to ask about more than I could see, and secondly, because I did not see the women of the upper class at all, and never saw the others in their gala attire. In addition to the fur coat, boots and shoes, which are exactly like those of the men, the women wear trousers which differ very slightly, a shift, and over it a robe-like upper garment, falling below the knee and clasped in the middle; on the head they wear either a cloth wound in turban-fashion, or a nun-like hood which covers head, neck, shoulders, and breast.

The clothing of both sexes is coarse, except the riding-boots and shoes, which are always well made. Very characteristic, and obviously adapted to the climatic conditions, are the extraordinarily long sleeves which both men and women wear on their upper garment; these fall far beyond the hands, and cover them almost completely.

The roving life to which the Kirghiz are compelled by the necessity of finding sufficient pasturage for their numerous herds, involves a style of dwelling which is easily constructed, can be taken down at one spot and erected again at another without special difficulty, and which must yet afford a sufficient protection against the hardness and inclemency of the climate. These requirements are fulfilled more thoroughly by the yurt than by any other movable dwelling, and it is not too much to say that this is the most perfect of all tents. Thousands of years of experience has made the yurt what it is—a home for the nomadic herdsman, or any other wanderer,—which, in its own way, cannot be surpassed. Light and easily moved, readily closed against storms, or thrown open to admit air and sunshine, comfortable and commodious, simple, yet admitting of rich decoration without and within, it unites in itself so many excellent qualities that one appreciates it ever more highly as time goes on, and finds it more and more habitable the longer one lives in it. It consists of a movable lattice-work which can be extended or contracted, and which forms the lower upright circular walls of the framework, a coupling ring which forms the arch at the top, spars inserted into both these, and a door in the lattice-work; light mats of tschi-grass, and large wads or sheets of felt, cut to shape, and most ingeniously laid on, compose the outer covering of the whole framework, and thick carpets of felt cover the floor. With the exception of the door-frames, which are mortised together, and of the spars, the upper ends of which are inserted into holes in the coupling-ring, the whole structure is held together simply by means of cords and bands; and it is thus easily taken to pieces, while its form—circular in cross section, and cupola-like longitudinally—renders it capable of great resistance to violent storms and bad weather of all sorts. The work of putting it up scarcely requires more than half an hour, that of taking it down even less; the strength of a single camel conveys it from place to place, but its construction and decoration take up much of the time and all the ingenuity of the housewife, to whose share falls the chief work of making it, and the whole labour of setting it up.

The yurt forms an important part of the movable property of a Kirghiz. A rich man owns six or eight, but he spends money rather on the decoration of a few than on the construction of many, for he is assessed and taxed not according to the size of his herds but the number of his yurts. The high-class Kirghiz certainly shows his wealth through his yurt, by fitting it up as richly as possible, making it out of the most valuable felt, and decorating it without and within with coloured pieces of cloth; but he sets store rather by the possession of costly rugs, and beautifully sewn and embroidered silken coverlets, with which he decorates the interior of the living-room on festive occasions. Such rugs are handed down from father to son, and the possession of them ranks scarcely below that of uncoined silver.

The real wealth of the nomadic herdsman cannot, however, be estimated by such secondary things; it must be calculated by his herds. Even the poorest owner of a yurt must possess numerous beasts to enable him to live, or survive in the struggle for existence; for the herds he tends form the one indispensable condition of life; they alone stand between him and ruin. The rich man’s herds may number thousands upon thousands, those of the poor man at least hundreds; but the richest may become poor, if disease breaks out among his herds, and the poor man may starve if death visits his beasts. Wide-spreading murrain reduces whole tribes to destitution, causes thousands of human beings literally to die of starvation. Little wonder, then, that every thought and aspiration of the Kirghiz is bound up with his herds, that his manners and customs correspond to this intimate connection between man and beast, that the man is, in short, dependent on the animal.

Not the most useful, but the noblest and the most highly prized of all the domesticated animals of the Kirghiz is the horse, which in the eyes of its owner represents the sum and essence of domestication, and the climax of all beauty; it is a standard by which to reckon, according to which wealth or poverty is determined. He does not call it a horse, but simply the domestic animal; instead of the words “left and right” he uses the expressions, “the side on which one mounts a horse”, and “the side on which one carries the knout”. The horse is the pride of youth and maiden, of man and woman, whether young or old; to praise or find fault with a horse is to praise or blame its rider, a blow given to a horse one is not riding is aimed not at the horse but at its owner.

A large number of the Kirghiz songs refer to the horse; it is used as a standard of comparison to give an estimate of the worth of men and women, or to describe human beauty.

the singer calls to the bride who is being led into the bridegroom’s yurt;

the bride answers to the youths who sing the “Jarjar”, the song of consolation to the departing bride, referring by the words “Foal-play” to the time of her first love.

The wealth of a man is expressed in the number of horses he possesses; payment for a bride is made in the value of so many horses; the maiden who is offered as a prize to the winner in a race is held as being worth a hundred mares; horses are given as mutual presents; with horses atonement is made for assassination or murder, limbs broken in a struggle, an eye knocked out, or for any crime or misdemeanour; one hundred horses release from ban and outlawry the assassin or murderer of a man, fifty, of a woman, thirty, of a child. The fine imposed by the tribe for injuring any one’s person or property is paid in horses; for the sake of a horse even a respectable man becomes a thief. The horse carries the lover to his loved one, the bridegroom to the bride, the hero to battle, the saddle and clothing of the dead from one camping-place to another; the horse carries man and woman from yurt to yurt, the aged man as well as the child firmly bound to his saddle, or the youthful rider who sits for the first time free. The rich man estimates his herds as equivalent to so many horses; without a horse a Kirghiz is what a man without a home is among us; without a horse he deems himself the poorest under the sun.

The Kirghiz has thoroughly studied the horse, he knows all its habits, its merits and defects, its virtues and vices, knows what benefits and what injures it; sometimes, indeed, he expects an incredible amount from it, but he never exacts it unless necessity compels him. He does not treat it with the affectionate care of the Arab, but neither does he ever show the want of consideration of many other peoples. One does not see anything of that careful and intelligent breeding of horses which is practised by Arabs and Persians, English and Germans, but he does constantly endeavour to secure the improvement of his favourite breeds by only placing the best stallions with the mares, and castrating the rest. Unfortunately his choice of breeding-horses is determined solely by form, and does not take colour into consideration at all, the consequence being that many of his horses are exceedingly ugly, because their colouring is so irregular and unequal. The training of the horse leaves much to be desired; our wandering herdsman is much too rich in horses for this to be otherwise.

We found the Kirghiz horse a pleasant and good-natured creature, although it by no means fulfilled our ideal of beauty in all respects. It is of medium size and slender build, with a head not ugly though rather large, decidedly ram-nosed, and noticeably thickened by the prominent lower jaw-bones, a moderately long and powerful neck, a long body, fine limbs, and soft hair. Its eyes are large and fiery, its ears somewhat large, but well-shaped. Mane and tail have fine, long hair, always abundant, the hair of the tail growing so luxuriantly that it sweeps the ground; the legs are well formed, but rather slim, the hoofs are upright, but often rather too high. Light colours prevail and very ugly piebalds often offend the eye. The commonest colours are brown, light-brown, fox-coloured, dun, and bay, more rare are dark-brown and black, and one only occasionally sees a gray. The mane and tail greatly increase the beauty of all the light-coloured horses, because they are either black or much lighter than the body hairs.

The temper of the animal is worthy of all praise. The Kirghiz horse is fiery, yet extremely good-natured, courageous in the presence of all known dangers, and only nervous, skittish, and timid when it is bewildered for a moment by something unusual; it is spirited and eager in its work, obedient, docile, willing, energetic, and very enduring, but it is chiefly valuable for riding, and requires long breaking-in to make it of use as a draught animal, in which capacity it is much less valuable than as a riding-horse.

It has a particularly disagreeable habit, for which the Kirghiz is certainly more to blame than the animal, of constantly eating or at least nibbling on the way; it even attempts to satisfy its appetite in the most difficult situations, as in wading through rocky mountain torrents or climbing steep precipices. It is as insatiable as all other domesticated animals accustomed to roam freely over the steppe, but in its association with others of its species, except in the breeding season, it is as peaceable as it is obedient and submissive to its master.

The poorer Kirghiz possess only horses enough to provide a mount for each member of the family, and to ensure the continuance of their stock. The richer dwellers on the steppe, on the other hand, have four or five, indeed I have often been assured as many as ten or twelve thousand head, which feed in separate herds, and at different places, and therefore, naturally enough, thrive better than those of their poorer brethren. Each herd consists of at least fifteen, or at most fifty individuals; in the latter case it comprises one fully-grown stallion, nine brood-mares, and as many young foals, eight two-year-olds, six or eight three-year-olds, and five or six four-year-olds, besides some older animals or geldings. The stallion is absolute lord and master, guide, leader, and protector of the herd, and he never lets himself be deprived of a single foal by the wolf, but attacks that cowardly robber boldly and successfully, striking him to the ground with his hoofs if he shows fight. But he will not tolerate a rival, and drives out all other stallions from the herd as soon as they come to maturity; when he enters on his leadership he drives away his own mother, and later his own daughters. This proud wilfulness necessitates the greatest watchfulness on the part of the herdsman during the pairing time, lest he lose the expelled mares which are seeking a new sultan, or the stallions which are striving for their own independence. The young mare reaches maturity in her fifth year, and the following spring, usually in March, she brings forth her first foal. She is not at once separated from the rest of the herd, but in May she and her foal are brought into the neighbourhood of the yurt, and for four months she is regularly milked to provide the famous koumiss or milk-wine. In autumn, mother and young are allowed to rejoin the herd. Both are received without hesitation, and they enjoy their newly-recovered freedom to the full.

Apart from the horse, the most useful, and therefore the most important domestic animal of our nomadic herdsman, is the sheep. This animal is very large and well-built, but very much disfigured by the protuberances of fat on the rump. The massive body rests upon long but powerful legs; the head is small, the nose narrow and blunt, the ears pendulous or erect, the horns weak, the skin hard but thick, the udder very much developed, the fat rump often so enormous that the creature can no longer carry it, but bending its knees lets it drag on the ground, unless the herdsman comes to its aid by fixing a little two-wheeled cart under the tail, and placing the burdensome appendage on that. When the Kirghiz rams are crossed with sheep without this protuberance, their descendants acquire the singular appendage in two or three generations, while if smooth-tailed rams be paired continuously with fat-rumped sheep the reverse takes place.

Though the character of the Kirghiz sheep resembles that of our sheep in all important respects, it cannot be disputed that the free life on the steppes, the long journeys which have to be made, and the difficulties which have to be surmounted in the course of these have developed its physical and mental capacities to an incomparably higher degree than is attained by our domestic sheep. Nevertheless, even in the steppe the clever goat acts as leader and guide to the relatively stupid sheep, and it is therefore only right that I should describe the goat next.

The Kirghiz goat is of medium size, massive and well-built, the body powerful, the neck short, the head small, the limbs well-proportioned, the eye large and bright, the glance full of expression, the erect ear pointed, the horns comparatively weak, and either directed backwards and outwards or half turned on their axes, the hair abundant, especially on beard and tail, that on the forehead being long and curled; the prevailing colouring is beautiful pure white with black markings.

The Kirghiz always treat sheep and goats exactly alike, and they feed together in flocks. The poor Kirghiz of one aul make up a flock among them, the rich man, whose beasts are numbered by many thousands, has often several. The shepherd, usually a biggish boy, rides on an ox beside his flock, but he understands so well how to manage his steed and make it trot, that he can overtake the fleetest goat. Once as we were returning from a hunting expedition, we met a shepherd who, by way of amusement, rode along for quite a quarter of an hour beside our briskly-trotting horses, yet his singular steed showed no signs of fatigue. Only the shepherds belonging to the Tartar sheep-owners ride on horses. In hazardous parts of their journeys, such as crossing a rapid stream, or climbing among the mountains, the goats take the lead, and here, as everywhere else, the sheep follow them blindly.

As hay can only be gathered and stacked in the most favoured spots, the birth of lambs and kids in autumn is prevented; it therefore always takes place in spring, and the young ones have thus every chance to thrive well and grow rapidly. New-born lambs and kids are taken into the yurt at once, and they soon become so well accustomed to it that they only quit the comfortable tent with piteous bleatings when circumstances render it necessary. Later on they are put into a shelter near the winter-dwelling. In the open steppe this shelter is a simple hollow in the ground, over which the cold wind blows almost unfelt; finally they are secured to the rope called a kögön, which is stretched between strong poles in front of every yurt. As soon as they begin to graze they are driven out in flocks by themselves to the open steppe, and brought back to the yurt towards evening. Thus they become accustomed from their earliest youth to the free life of the steppes, to wind and tempest, storm and rain.

In comparison with horses, sheep, and goats, cattle play a very subordinate part. Herds of them are certainly to be seen in the neighbourhood of every aul, but they are quite out of proportion to the numbers of sheep and goats. The ox is larger and better built than that of the Russian and Siberian peasants, but it is far behind the Chinese ox, and cannot for a moment be compared with any noteworthy breed of Western Europe. It is of medium size and fleshy, its coat is short and smooth-haired, its horns long and curved, its prevailing colour a beautiful, warm red-brown. The cattle are sent out to graze in rather large herds, with no supervision of any kind, the milch cows being enticed back to the yurt solely by the calves which are tied up and tended there, while the bulls roam about as they please, and often remain away from the aul for several days at a time.

Though all the large auls possess camels, by no means every Kirghiz owns one, and even the richest among them seldom possess more than fifty head. For the camel is rightly considered the most perishable of all the stock owned by the nomadic herdsmen of this steppe; its real home lies farther to the south and east. In the part of the steppe through which we travelled only the two-humped camel is reared, but south of the Balkhash Lake and in Central Asia preference is given to the dromedary. The two species cross here and produce strange hybrids in which the two humps are almost fused into one.

The camel of the central steppe belongs to one of the lighter breeds, and is therefore not nearly so massive and awkward as those which are to be seen in most zoological gardens, but it is quite as thickly covered with hair. Nevertheless, it does not stand cold nearly so well as the other domestic animals of the Kirghiz, and requires a felt mat to kneel down or rest on, and even then it often takes cold and dies. While shedding its hair it has to be enveloped in a felt covering, and in summer it has to be protected from mosquitoes and gadflies else it will succumb; in short, it is the object of constant anxiety, and is therefore not suited to a poor man, who feels every loss with threefold force. It resembles the dromedary in being easily satisfied in the matter of food, and in displaying the blind rage characteristic of the pairing-time, when it menaces even its usually loved master, but, for the rest of the year, it differs from the dromedary, very much to its own advantage, in docility and gentleness. Having been accustomed to the dromedary for many years, I was particularly struck by these excellent qualities in the steppe camel; I hardly recognized the race. The camel allows itself to be caught without resisting, and kneels down to be laden, if not altogether without grumbling, at least without the horrible, nerve-shattering bellowing of the dromedary. Even at a trot it carries light burdens uncomplainingly, covering twenty miles or more in the course of a day; if its load slips, it stops of its own accord. With a rider it can cover about thirty miles a day; with a weight of eight cwts. on its back, compelling it to a slow but striding step, it should manage at least half that distance. It grazes almost always in the vicinity of the yurt, in company with all its fellows of the aul, and in the eyes of the Kirghiz it is to a certain extent a sacred animal.

The dog, which is the least valued animal owned by the Kirghiz, is always large but not always beautiful, though the difference between it and the hideous curs to be met with elsewhere in Siberia and Turkestan is very marked and greatly in its favour. The head is long but rather heavy, the limbs more like those of a greyhound than a sheep-dog, the hair long and woolly, the colouring very varied.

Watchful and courageous in the highest degree, he is a worthy adversary of the wolf, an efficient and careful protector of the weaker herds, a suspicious sentinel towards strangers, the faithful slave of his master, an unsociable recluse as far as grown-up people are concerned, but the willing playmate of the children. He has many of the virtues of his race, and is therefore to be found in every yurt or at least in every aul.

The whole life of the Kirghiz centres in his herds,—making use of them and their products, and to that end tending them carefully. The former is the chief occupation of the women, the latter the most important work of the men. With the exception of the bones, which are thrown away unheeded, every portion of the body of every one of their animals is used, just as every female among the live stock is milked as long as possible. The quantity of vegetable food used by the Kirghiz is extremely small; milk and meat form his chief diet in all circumstances, and vegetable products are merely accessory. Bread, in the real sense of the word, he scarcely uses at all, and even the little lumps of dough which may be reckoned as such, are sodden in fat, not baked. Flour and rice,—the latter a frequent dish only among the rich,—also serve to give variety to the everlasting monotony of milk and meat dishes. Little wonder then that death from starvation threatens the Kirghiz, indeed too often overtakes him, when general murrain breaks out among his beasts in the midst of the steppe.

The wealthier people keep the milk of sheep and goats separate from that of cows, and of mares and camels; poor people mix all the milk in one vessel, and thus get only the effect of sheep’s milk, while the rich secure some differentiation of palatal pleasure. From the milk of sheep and goats, which is invariably milked into the same vessel and collected in the same leathern bottle, they prepare not only various dishes, which are eaten at once with or without flour, but also butter, small, sour or bitter, gritty cheeses, most distasteful to a European palate, and a yellow curd very agreeable even to our taste, which, like the cheese, is stored up for use in winter, when it is dissolved in water to make a sort of soup. Cow’s milk, on the other hand, they use chiefly as sour milk, and only rarely make into curds, cheese, or butter, while that of mares and camels is used for making the koumiss so often described. This is a milk-wine made by allowing milk to ferment for four days, and by constantly shaking and beating it. It is much appreciated, and indeed justly prized among the Kirghiz, and the well-to-do among them often drink it to intoxication on festive occasions.

During summer even the wealthier Kirghiz live almost entirely on milk in various forms, for they only kill a member of their herd for a festival or on some specially important occasion. When winter sets in, however, sheep and goats, horses and cattle, even camels are killed. The flesh of the horse, especially of the mare, is looked on as the noblest, that of cattle as the worst and poorest food. The flesh of sheep ranks next to horse flesh; camel flesh is good for the soul’s health; goat flesh is a mark of poverty, or is set before a guest in expression of contempt. Of the slaughtered horse the loins are most highly prized, and the breast of the sheep. A dainty of the first order is the belly fat of a young horse; this is therefore salted, made into smoked sausages, and set before the honoured guest with as much ceremony as the koumiss itself.

The Kirghiz turns to profit not only the edible portions but every usable part of the animals he rears. From the wool of the sheep he prepares the indispensable felt; he weaves and spins the hair of the camel, and the mother lays her new-born babe in its soft down-like under wool. The long hair of the goat is made into fringes for rugs and cloths, or into tassels or cords; the short woolly hair is spun and woven into bands for the yurt, and the hair of the horse’s mane and tail is plaited into much-prized leading-reins or cords for the yurt. Sheep-skin furnishes the ordinary winter fur coat; the skins of lambs and kids make valuable fur-trimmings; the flocks of wool rubbed off make good wadding for lining other garments, and the skins of all the animals supply leather of different kinds. The Kirghiz barters the superfluous or little-prized fat of his beasts, and some of his sheep, cattle, and horses for various other commodities of the general market; with the proceeds of the sale of his herds he pays his taxes and tributes, buys the uncoined silver with which he loves to make a display, the iron which he works, the rugs, garments, and silk stuffs with which he decks his person and his yurt. The herds are and must remain the sole support and source of wealth of the nomadic herdsman; the little land which he occasionally ploughs, sows, waters, and reaps is hardly worth taking into account.

It is not their own humour, but the necessity of satisfying the requirements of their stock, that regulates the roamings and sojournings of the Kirghiz, that compels them to wander this way to-day and that to-morrow, to rest for a little in one place, and shortly afterwards to leave it for another. The journeyings of these people are therefore by no means aimless wanderings about the vast steppe, but carefully-considered changes of residence determined by the season, and by the species of animal requiring fresh pasture. The steppe allows no planless roaming either in summer or winter, autumn or spring; aimless roving would expose the herds in winter to the most terrible storms, in summer to the danger of drought; in spring there would probably be an embarrassing superfluity of fodder, and by autumn the supply would have unpleasantly diminished. So the Kirghiz begins his journey from the low-lying plains, ascends slowly to the higher ground and even to the mountains, then moves slowly back to the low grounds again. But the various herds have different needs: sheep and goats like hard, fragrant plants such as are to be found on the salt steppe; horses prefer the mountain plants, especially those growing among masses of rock, while the favourite grazing-ground of cattle is soft meadow-land, and camels, besides eating the hard salt steppe plants, appear to look upon thorns and thistles as an indispensable part of their food. The well-to-do, who can group the different animals in separate herds, let each herd wander and feed by itself, and only the poorer people move from one place to another with all their stock together. Finally, the movements of one party are influenced by those of another. There are, indeed, no landmarks nor boundary stones, but even in the open steppe rights of possession and definite boundaries are recognized by ancient agreement; every horde, every branch of a horde, every community, the members of every aul, claim a right to the land traversed by their forefathers, and suffer no strange herd or herdsman to encroach on it, but take to arms and wage bloody warfare with every intruder, even with other members of the same tribe. This explains the fact that the nomad herdsman not only travels along definite routes, but restricts himself to a strictly limited range. His path may occasionally cross that of another herdsman, but it is never the same, for each respects the rights of the other, and is prevented by the rest of his tribe from encroaching upon them.

“Settled”, in our sense of the word, the Kirghiz never is, unless in the grave, but he is not without a home. In the wide sense, his home is the district through which he travels, in most cases the basin and valley of a small stream or brook, or, in a more restricted sense, his winter camping-ground from which he sets forth on his journeys, and to which he always returns. In the neighbourhood of this camping-ground rest nearly all, if not all his dead; here he may even have a fixed dwelling; hither the government sends its messengers to collect his taxes or appraise his possessions and count the members of his family and of his herds; here he spends, if not the happiest, at least the largest part of his life; here, gay and careless as he usually is, he passes through his severest and most serious trials. The exact locality of the winter dwelling may vary, but the camping-ground does not. Indispensable conditions are, that it be as much as possible protected from the cold, deadly, north and east winds, that the yurt can be erected on a sunny spot, that fixed houses may be built without much difficulty, that the necessary supply of water be certain, and that sufficient pasturage be available within easy distance. These conditions are best fulfilled by the valley of a river whose tributaries have cut deeply into the surrounding country, where the grass does not dry up in summer, so that hay can be cut at the proper season and yet enough food be left for the herds in winter, and where, in addition to the dung used for fire-lighting, fuel may be procured from the willow-bushes and black poplars on the river-bank. Other localities are only selected when it is a question of taking advantage of some place, such as the salt steppe, which has to be avoided in summer because it lacks water, that being supplied in sufficient abundance for man and beast as soon as snow has fallen. Though the winter dwelling may be a fixed one, it is always truly miserable, a musty, damp, dark hut, so lightly built that the inmates depend on the snow for thickening the walls and roof, and protecting them from storms. These walls are occasionally made of piled-up tree-trunks, oftener of rough stones, but most frequently of plaited willows or bundles of reeds. The roof and thatch are always of reeds. Close beside the dwelling-house is a similarly-constructed stable for the young animals, and at some distance there is a shelter for the rest of the herds.

In the beginning of winter the Kirghiz moves into such a winter dwelling, unless, as is perhaps usually the case, he prefers the much more comfortable yurt. The fuel for either has been long ago prepared, for in the preceding spring he, or rather his wife, upon whom falls all the heavier and more disagreeable work, mixed the dung of the herd animals with straw, and worked it into square cakes, which were then piled in heaps and dried in the sun. All the grass in the immediate neighbourhood has been carefully spared, so that the herds may graze as near the dwelling as possible; here, too, the hay which has been mown at a distance has been collected. If the winter be a good one, that is, if not much snow falls, the herds find food enough, but if it be severe, it often renders all precautions futile, and levies a toll on his herds heavier than is counterbalanced by the spring increase. Thus, in a good winter, cheerfulness prevails even in the dark hut of the wandering herdsman, but in a severe one, which reduces his beasts to walking skeletons, black care and grief visit even the pleasant yurt. In hut and yurt alike there is either comfort and plenty or bitter want during that much-dreaded season of the year.

It is not till towards the end of April, in many years not before the end of May, that the herdsman leaves his winter camp and begins to travel. The horses, tended by special herdsmen, move on in advance, so as not to annoy the smaller animals. It is not the lively foals, born, like the kids, a few weeks before, that cause so much anxiety; it is the young stallions and mares which are just reaching maturity. The foals spring about the whole herd in wanton playfulness, but they do not go far from the mother mares, who are quietly grazing, and only look up at them now and again. The young stallions and mares, on the other hand, cause continual uneasiness, and call for the greatest watchfulness on the part of the herdsmen, whose numbers are doubled for the time. Now the young males fight with the old, dignified, and domineering leader of the herd; now the young females throng about the sire till he is compelled to drive them away with bites; now one or another of them attempts to escape, and rushes, with head against the wind and dilated nostrils, out into the steppe. The herdsman at once urges the horse he is riding to a gallop, and pursues the fugitive in mad haste up hill and down dale; in his right hand he holds the long herdsman’s crook, with a noose attached to one end; nearer and nearer he presses on the young mare. The dreaded lasso is thrown, and is about to descend on her head, when she suddenly swerves to one side, and throwing her hind-legs into the air, as if teasing or mocking her pursuer, she is off again with renewed speed, and the wild chase begins anew, and goes on, until at length the herdsman succeeds in catching her, and leading her slowly back to the herd. Entertaining though this spectacle may be for the unconcerned spectator, perhaps even for the herdsman himself, such mad hunts would disturb the quiet and regular progress of the smaller animals, and therefore the owner does not let his different herds travel together, if it can be avoided. Nor could sheep and goats cover such distances as the horses do, for not only are they much enfeebled by the hardships of winter, but the lambs and kids are not yet strong enough. Separation of the herds is therefore doubly necessary.

The Kirghiz, when journeying with his smaller animals, at first only traverses a short distance, a so-called “sheep’s journey” each day, and he stops wherever there is good pasture, as long as his flocks graze with avidity. On the journey the flock of sheep, with its shepherd riding on an ox, leads the way. The sheep proceed at a tolerably quick pace, now crowding close together, now scattering widely, here and there stopping their march to enjoy to the full some specially dainty plant, but eating, or at least nibbling, all the time, and the herdsman’s steed also grazes uninterruptedly. The flock of ewes and mother-goats follows that of the lambs and kids, but at such a distance that they see and hear nothing of each other. The flock of wethers, if such still exists, or has just been formed, takes a different route. After all the flocks and herds have set out, the women take down the yurt, load camels or oxen with it and the few household requisites, mount their own horses with their children and other members of the family, and ride slowly after the milk-giving flocks. By mid-day they overtake them, milk them, and, carrying the milk in leathern bottles, continue their journey till sundown, when they set up the yurt again. One day passes like another. When the spring has brought fresh verdure, they remain for days, later on for weeks, in the same spot, until the pasturage around is growing scarce; then they move on again. When advancing spring calls to full life the slumbering insect larvæ, when swarms innumerable of gnats, flies, gadflies, and other pests fill the air, they direct their steps, if it be at all possible, towards the mountains, and climb gradually to the highest plateaus just below the snow-line. For the shepherd, who gets no assistance from the dogs, it is a hard enough task to guide the flocks over the plains; but in the mountains the difficulty of completing his daily “sheep’s journey” is immense, and it is impossible for him to get over some obstacles without the aid of other riders. As long as there is a beaten track the journey goes smoothly on, whether the path winds through flowery plains or over slopes and precipices. The leading goats survey such places for a little, as if deliberating, then choosing their path they go on their way, and the sheep follow them trustfully. But it is a different matter when, instead of a murmuring brook, a rushing torrent bars the way, and must be crossed. At sight of the decidedly hostile element even the bold goats hesitate, ready though they are to adapt themselves to all circumstances; but the sheep recoil from it in terror, and even climb the nearest rocks as if to save themselves. In vain the shepherd rides through the rushing flood; in vain he returns and collects his flock on the banks. The sheep express their anxiety in loud bleatings, even the goats bleat hesitatingly, till the shepherd’s patience is exhausted. For one moment the fateful sling hangs over the head of one of the sheep; the next, it feels itself caught by the neck, pulled up to the saddle, and hurled into the seething waters. Now it must shift for itself. Swimming spasmodically, or rather making a series of springs, it struggles on from one mass of rock to another, but before it can gain a footing, it is hurried on by the torrent, and kicks, flounders, leaps, and swims again, is every now and then carried away by the flood, but eventually reaches the opposite bank, exhausted more by terror than by exertion. Trembling in every limb, it satisfies itself that it is really on dry land again, shakes its dripping fleece, looks back timidly once more, and then begins to feed greedily to make up for the discomfort it has suffered. Meanwhile the rest of the flock have crossed the torrent one after another, either of their own accord or compulsorily, and when all have been collected again the march is resumed. In this manner the nomadic herdsman gradually reaches the mountains. When it begins to grow cold, when perhaps a slight fall of snow suggests the approach of winter, herdsman and herd turn downwards again, this time through the shadiest gorges, till the low-lying plain is reached, and the circle is completed at the winter camping-ground. This is the regular yearly routine.

All the Kirghiz domestic animals accustom themselves very quickly to the different districts in which they graze, wherever the place may be. After having gone to a pasture once or twice, all know the way thither again, they find it unfailingly without the herdsman, and return of their own accord to the yurt to be milked. There is certainly a strong inducement for them to do so, for from May onwards the young of all milk-yielding animals are kept from their mothers, and yet allowed to graze in the neighbourhood of the aul, so that longing for their young is kept alive in the maternal hearts. Thus milking can always take place at the same hour, and the mistress of the yurt can regulate her work and portion out her day.

With the exception of the mares, which are always milked by men, and often require the attention of at least two, and not rarely of three during the process, all the milking is done by the women. Early in the morning the calves, lambs, and kids are allowed to suck a little under strict supervision, and are then separated from the mothers, old and young being driven to their respective pastures. At mid-day the mothers, without the young, are brought to the yurt to be milked, and again in the evening the mothers are brought in before the young for the same purpose. With the help of the dogs, which render no other service, the whole flock is gathered into a limited space, and the work begins. The mistress and servants of a yurt, or those who live together as neighbours in an aul, appear with their milk vessels, and dexterously seizing one sheep after another, drag it to a rope stretched between poles, pass a sling formed by the rope itself round the neck of each, and thus force the animals to remain standing in rows with the heads turned inwards, the udders outwards. In this manner thirty or forty head of sheep and goats are fastened together in a few minutes, and the so-called “kögön” is formed. Taught by experience, the animals stand perfectly still as soon as they feel the string, and submit passively to all that follows. The women, sitting opposite each other, begin at one end, or if there are many sheep, at both ends of the double row, seize the short teats between forefinger and thumb, and exhaust the milk with rapid pulls. If it does not flow freely they shake the udder with a blow from the left hand, exactly as the sucking young ones do, and only when even by this means nothing more can be obtained do they proceed to the next sheep. The men of the yurt or aul, who may perhaps have helped to catch and fasten the sheep and goats, sit about in all sorts of positions, impossible and almost inconceivable to us, and allow their “red tongue” the fullest freedom. Some of the little boys make their first venture at riding on the sheep, unless they prefer the shoulders of their mothers for that purpose. The latter are as little distracted by these doings of their offspring as by any other little incidents. Whether they sit on the dry ground or in fresh sheep’s dung, whether some of that falls into their poplar-wood vessels, affects them little, for the vessel is in any case as dirty as the hand which milks; and though sheep’s dung may be unclean in our eyes it is not so in those of the Kirghiz, who believe in the Koran. At length the milking is at an end and the animals, which have been tethered all this time and have been ruminating for want of better employment, can be released; a quick pull at one end of the cord, all the slings are undone, and the sheep and goats are free.

A general, simultaneous bleating is the first expression of their delight in their newly-recovered freedom; a short, quickly-repeated shaking throws off the last recollections of their undignified servitude; and then they run off as quickly as possible, in the plains as far away from the yurt as the herdsman allows, in the mountainous districts towards the hills, as if they could only there breathe the air of freedom. In reality they are longing to meet their young ones as soon as possible. All day long they have been away from them, but now, according to all their experience, the little ones must appear. The sheep run about bleating continuously, and even the intelligent goats look longingly all around as if they wished to find out whether the expected flock is already on the way, or at least whether it is visible in the far distance. The bleating grows louder and louder, for every newly-released row excites all the sheep assembled in the neighbourhood of the aul; and the impatience of the mothers, which is increasing every minute, finds vent in piteous, almost moaning bleatings. The longer the suspense lasts the more restless do the mothers become. Aimlessly they wander hither and thither, sniff at every blade of grass on the way, but scarcely crop any, lift their heads expectantly and joyously, let them droop again in disappointed sadness, bleat, and bleat again. The restlessness increases almost to frenzy, the bleating becomes a perfect bellowing.

From the distance are heard weak, shrill, bleating sounds. They do not escape the attentive ears of the mothers. A loud and simultaneous call from every throat is the answer; all the maternal longing, increased to the utmost by the long waiting, is condensed in a single cry. And from the distance, down from the hills towards the yurt, the eager lambs and kids come rushing to find their mothers; the biggest and strongest in front, the youngest and weakest behind, but all hurrying, running and leaping, almost enveloped in a cloud of dust; and stretching out into a longer procession the nearer they approach their goal. An apparently inextricable confusion arises, old and young, united at last, run hither and thither, touching each other lightly as they pass, to find out, by touch as well as by smell, whether they have found their own or not; both run on if this is not the case, the lambs and kids, however, in most cases only after they have been made aware of their mistake by a push or tread from the mother animal. Gradually the dense crowd dissolves, for by degrees, in a much shorter time than one would imagine, every mother has found her child, every child its mother, and the young one now kneels down under its parent, eagerly drawing from the udder what milk remains. And if the bleating still continues, the sounds are now indicative only of the liveliest satisfaction.

But this state of mutual delight does not last long. The udders, already milked, are quickly exhausted, and, in spite of all the thrusts of the suckling, the fountain will flow no longer. But mother and young still enjoy the pleasure of being together. The mixed flock spreads out in all directions, the complaisant mother following the lively youngster as it climbs the nearest height after the manner of its kind, or looking contentedly on when a little kid tries its strength in playful combat with another of its own age. The whole space round the yurt is picturesquely decorated by the lively flocks, a most charming picture of peaceful and comfortable pastoral life lies before the eyes of those who have feeling and understanding to enjoy it.

The women now allow themselves a short rest, take their children in their laps, and fulfil their maternal duties or desires. But more work awaits them. A lowing announces the approach of the cows, also eager for their share of maternal joy, and the industrious women rise hastily, bring the calves which were tied up beforehand to the cows, let them suck for a little, wrench them from the udder again, and only after milking allow the calves full freedom. Meanwhile the shepherds and dogs have once more collected the sheep and goats, and now old and young, men and women, boys and girls, unite in the work of catching the lambs and fastening them in rows, with nooses which are firm without being too tight, to a cord in front of the yurt, so that the mothers cannot suckle. As may be supposed, this is not completed without much bleating and noise, and mingled with it are the cries and wailings of the children wearying for their mothers, the lowing of cows, and the barking of dogs. Only the lambs and kids just tied submit quietly to the inevitable. A few kids still try their sprouting horns in playful duels, but they soon tire, and lay themselves peaceably down opposite their quondam rivals. Before the long row is fastened most of the young ones have tucked in their legs and given themselves up to repose. One mother-sheep and goat after another sniffs at the little ones till she has found her own, but returns to the flock when she has satisfied herself that it is impossible to lie down beside her offspring.

The sun has long since disappeared from the horizon, and twilight has given place to darkness. It becomes quieter and quieter in the yurt. Men and animals have sought and found rest; only the dogs begin their rounds under the guidance of a watchful herdsman; but even they only bark when there is a real reason for it, when it is necessary to scare away some prowling wolf or other thief. A cool, but fragrant, dewy summer night descends upon the steppe, and the refreshing slumber of this richest and most beautiful season blots out the hardships of winter from the memory of man and beast alike.