NOMADS OF THE FOREST 167 



out the certainty of a thorough wetting. When the sun 

 has dried the dew, there are swamps and streamlets in 

 every valley and even far up the mountain slopes. It 

 is the heavy rainfall, the rich soil, and the brilliant 

 sunshine that make northern Mongolia a paradise of 

 luxurious grass and flowers, even though the real sum- 

 mer lasts only from May till August. Then, the val- 

 leys are like an exquisite garden and the woods are 

 ablaze with color. Bluebells, their stalks bendmg under 

 the weight of blossoms, clothe every hillside in a glorious 

 azure dress bespangled with yellow roses, daisies, and 

 forget-me-nots. But I think I like the wild poppies 

 best of all, for their delicate, fragile beauty is wonder- 

 fully appealing. I learned to love them first in Alaska, 

 where their pale, yellow faces look up happily from the 

 storm-swept hills of the Pribilof Islands in the Bering 

 Sea. 



Besides its flowers, this northern country is one of 

 exceeding beauty. The dark green forests of spruce, 

 larch and pine, broken now and then by a grove of 

 poplars or silver birches, the secluded valleys and the 

 rounded hills are strangely restful and give one a sense 

 of infinite peace. It is a place to go for tired nerves. 

 Ragged peaks, towering mountains, and yawning 

 chasms,- splendid as they are, may be subtly disturbing, 

 engendering a feeling of restlessness and vague depres- 

 sion. There is none of this in the forests of Mongolia. 

 We felt as though we might be happy there all our lives 

 —the mad rush of our other world seemed very far 

 away and not much worth while. 



