THE AFGHAN BORDERLAND 



795 



Dinner that Thanksgiving night con- 

 sisted of a first course of black bread, 

 milk, and tea, followed at an interval of 

 an hour by "borsh," a favorite Russian 

 soup full of large pieces of potato, beet, 

 and carrot, floating amid chunks of mut- 

 ton. The sergeant and his comrades 

 evidently suffered sadly from ennui ; dis- 

 cipline was naturally lax in so remote 

 and uninspected a post, and drunkenness 

 and gambling were too common to ex- 

 cite remark. Yet, in spite of this, one 

 could not help liking the patient, good- 

 tempered Cossacks, for there was an air 

 of strength and vigor about them — the 

 attitude of a conquering race. 



During the next ten days I visited 

 other lonely frontier stations, the largest 

 of which was Serakhs, a Turkoman town 

 at the very northeastern corner of Per- 

 sia. Here the "pristav," or local execu- 

 tive officer, when he heard of the 

 presence of an American, insisted upon 

 my becoming a guest in his pleasant 

 home. It was most interesting to see 

 how this educated, energetic young man 

 and his girlish wife made the modest 

 executive dwelling an oasis of European 

 culture in the midst of the Transcaspian 

 desert. The effect was marred some- 

 what by the tall Cossacks who waited on 

 the table, did the cooking, and wheeled 

 the baby in its carriage ; but, as Mrs 

 Pristav said, "A Cossack is the most 

 careful kind of nursemaid, and, besides, 

 we can't get any girls or women here." 



At the military club, the social center 

 of the community, the remoteness of the 

 place was much more evident than in 

 the pristav's house. As there was noth- 

 ing else to do, every one, including the 

 priest, gambled and drank. When the 

 regimental band began to play, I fear my 

 face must have shown my feelings, for 

 an officer's wife who had lived in Ger- 

 many and England remarked, plain- 

 tively, "Does it sound very badly? When 

 I first came I used to think it sounded 

 terribly out of tune, but now I can't tell 

 whether it is right or not. I believe I 

 like it out of tune." 



At Serakhs I was obliged to wait sev- 

 eral days for the young Russian official 



who was to be my companion in Persia. 

 The time was well spent, for the chief of 

 the Department of Agriculture of the 

 province invited me to go with him on 

 his annual tour of inspection to the pis- 

 tachio region, fifty miles to the south, 

 on the border of Afghanistan. Part of 

 the way we went by wagon and part on 

 horseback, riding Cossack horses belong- 

 ing to our escort. Once we stayed at a 

 post where the wife of the captain was 

 the only white woman within forty-five 

 miles. 



Again we crossed into Persian terri- 

 tory, and were struck by the poverty and 

 dilapidation of the Persian military 

 posts, which are supposed to offset those 

 of Russia. When told that certain men 

 were soldiers in uniform, I could see that 

 among their rags an occasional brass 

 button was hidden, but otherwise the 

 soldiers and the beggars looked alike. 



We found the pistachios growing upon 

 low, bushy trees on the slopes of the 

 gently rising mountains which form the 

 Afghan border. The tree is so resistant 

 to drought that the Bureau of Plant 

 Industry of the United States deems it 

 one of the most useful plants for intro- 

 duction into the arid regions of our own 

 country. The Russian government de- 

 rives quite a revenue from the sale of the 

 wild crop to Armenian merchants, who 

 employ Turkomans to gather the nuts. 



A Russian servant, Mikhail by name, 

 shared all my journeyings in the Afghan 

 borderland. On the first day of his ser- 

 vice he reported for duty hilariously 

 drunk, a condition of which he appeared 

 to be much ashamed when he was sober. 

 When he came for orders in Serakhs the 

 pristav's wife, who had no fear of wild 

 Turkomans and was accustomed to Cos- 

 sacks as housemaids, was quite fright- 

 ened. "I thought he was a robber," she 

 said, when she saw him come into the 

 kitchen with his rough sheepskin jacket, 

 high boots, tilted Turkoman busby of 

 sheepskin, shaggy brown beard, and 

 sharp blue eyes. 



In spite of his appearance he was a 

 most lovable, gentle man — faithful, re- 

 sourceful, and honest, a good hunter, 



