21 I 



THE FATHER OF ALL SHEEP. 



I HAD pitched my tent one evening at one of 

 the numerous places called Kyangma Chumik, a 

 spring near the Tibetan border beyond Hanle. 

 It was as dreary and barren a spot as one could 

 find anywhere on the rolling uplands of " the 

 great Chang." But for the patch of green grass 

 round the little pool of water which gave the place 

 its name Kyang's spring, nothing met the eye 

 but a waste of round, sterile hills and sandy valleys 

 stretching away to the horizon. Above the low 

 line of purple hills to the west lay a bank of dark 

 clouds, from behind which a shaft of light struck 

 up into the rosy sky. The evening was intensely 

 still, but so rare the air, that as I sat watching 

 the tail of my little caravan come in, the shouts 

 of the yak drivers scarcely brought with them an 

 answering echo. 



Kyang, the Central Asian wild ass, handsome 

 beasts that looked like big, well-groomed mules, 

 of a bright chestnut colour and in splendid con- 



