64 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



inmates, is pure Chinese; and the ornate cottages pro- 

 claim themselves to be only Russian. 



But on the street my wife and I could never forget 

 that we were in Mongolia. We never tired of wan- 

 dering through the narrow alleys, with their tiny na- 

 tive shops, or of watching the ever-changing crowds. 

 Mongols in half a dozen different tribal dresses, Tibetan 

 pilgrims, Manchu Tartars, or camel drivers from far 

 Turkestan drank and ate and gambled with Chinese 

 from civilized Peking. 



The barbaric splendor of the native dress fairly makes 

 one gasp for breath. Besides gowns and sashes of daz- 

 zling brilliance, the men wear on their heads all the types 

 of covering one learned to know in the pictures of 

 ancient Cathay, from the high-peaked hat of yellow and 

 black through the whole, strange gamut to the helmet 

 with streaming peacock plumes. But were I to tell 

 about them all I would leave none of my poor descrip- 

 tive phrases for the women. 



It is hopeless to draw a word-picture of a Mongol 

 woman. A photograph will help, but to be appreciated 

 she must be seen in all her colors. To begin with the 

 dressing of her hair. If all the women of the Orient 

 competed to produce a strange and fantastic type, I do 

 not believe that they could excel what the Mongol ma- 

 trons have developed by themselves. 



Their hair is plaited over a frame into two enormous 

 flat bands, curved like the horns of a mountain sheep 

 and reenforced with bars of wood or silver. Each horn 

 ends in a silver plaque, studded with bits of colored glass 



