ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



was time to stop I would have to put all my strength 

 upon the reins and the horse would come into a slow 

 gallop and then a trot. Seconds of valuable time would 

 be wasted before I could begin to shoot. I tried half 

 a dozen other ponies, but they were all as bad. They 

 did not have the intelligence or the love of hunting 

 which made Kublai Khan so valuable. 



The morning after encountering the great herd, we 

 camped at a well thirty miles north of the Turin mon- 

 astery. Three or four yurts were scattered about, and 

 a caravan of two hundred and fifty camels was rest- 

 ing in a little hollow. From the door of our tent we 

 could see the blue summit of the Turin "mountain," 

 and have in the foreground a perpetual moving picture 

 of camels, horses, sheep, goats, and cattle seeking water. 

 All day long hundreds of animals crowded about the 

 well, while one of two Mongols filled the troughs by 

 means of wooden buckets. 



The life about the wells is always interesting, for they 

 are points of concentration for all wanderers on the 

 plains. Just as we pitch our tents and make ourselves 

 at home, so great caravans arrive with tired, laden 

 camels. The huge brutes kneel, while their packs are 

 being removed, and then stand in a long line, patiently 

 waiting until their turn comes to drink. Groups of ten 

 or twelve crowd about the trough; then, majestically 

 swinging their padded feet, they move slowly to one 

 side, kneel upon the ground, and sleepily chew their 

 cuds until all the herd has joined them. Sometimes the 

 caravans wait for several days to rest their animals and 



