66 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



never quite make myself believe that it was real when a 

 brilliant group of horsemen in pointed, yellow hats and 

 streaming, peacock feathers dashed down the street. It 

 seemed too impossible that I, a wandering naturalist of 

 the drab, prosaic twentieth century, and my American 

 wife were really a living, breathing part of this strange 

 drama of the Orient. 



But there was one point of contact which we had with 

 this dream-life of the Middle Ages. Yvette and I both 

 love horses, and the way to a Mongol's heart is through 

 his pony. Once on horseback we began to identify our- 

 selves with the fascinating life around us. We lost the 

 uncomfortable sense of being merely spectators in the 

 Urga theatricals, and forgot that we had come to the 

 holy city by means of a very unromantic motor car. 



We remained at Urga for ten days while preparations 

 were under way for our first trip to the plains, and re- 

 turned to it often during the summer. We came to 

 know it well, and each time we rode down the long street 

 it seemed more wonderful that, in these days of com- 

 merce, Urga, and in fact all Mongolia, could have ex- 

 isted throughout the centuries with so little change. 



There is, of course, no lack of modern influence in the 

 sacred city, but as yet it is merely a veneer which has 

 been lightly superimposed upon its ancient civilization, 

 leaving almost untouched the basic customs of its peo- 

 ple. This has been due to the remoteness of Mongolia. 

 Until a few years ago, when motor cars first made their 

 way across the seven hundred miles of plains, the only 

 access from the south was by camel caravan, and the 





