All this time the cubs remained perched among the branches, and the officer, considering himself victorious, longed to take possession of his prize. But he could devise no plan of getting at them, and it was evident they would not come down at his call. Luckily, a woodman, on his way to the gold mine, rode into the arena. The Cossack hailed him; ordered him to dismount, to take from his saddle the zumka, or leather saddle-bags, and, climbing the tree, to thrust the cubs into them, while he himself kept watch over the mother bear. This was done, though not without several sharp encounters between the she-bear and the officer; and, finally, the peasant threw his heavy bags across his horse, and led the way to the ravine, the Cossack covering the rear. In this fashion they marched into Barnaoul; first, the woodman and his horse, next the Cossack officer, and behind him the bear. The march occupied two hours, and the unfortunate mother persevered to the very last, not abandoning her young ones until their captor had reached the cottages. Then she hastily returned into the forest, and was seen no more. III. There is much to attract and impress in the scenery of the lakes of the Altai. Lake scenery in a mountainous country is always picturesque, always striking, from the variety of forms which it presents, and its endless contrasts of light and shade, and its magical combinations of colours. Moreover, it passes so rapidly from the calmly beautiful to the sublime! for at one moment the silver waters sleep as profoundly as a babe on its mother’s breast; at another, the storm-wind issues from the savage glen, and lashes them into a white wrath. In the genial days of summer it shines and sparkles with a peculiar radiance; a golden glory seems to hang upon the mountain sides, and a purple light rests on the bosom of the lake. In the dreary winter, nothing can be grander in its gloom; the hollows and the glens are heavy with an eery darkness, through which the white peaks show like sheeted phantoms. In truth, it appeals to us by its twofold features of the mountain and the water. The former awakens our awe, lifts us out of our commonplace lives, and fills us with a sense of the wonder and mystery of God’s work; it is an embodiment of majesty and power, a noble and sublime architecture, the study of which awakens the higher and purer impulses of the soul. Beauty of colour, perfection of form, an endless change in the midst of what seems to us an everlasting permanency—all those are the mountain’s; all these belong to that great cathedral of the earth, with its “gates of rock,” its “pavements of cloud,” its snow-white altars, and its airy roof, traversed by the stars. Then as to water; has it not a wonder and a beauty of its own? “If we think of it,” says Ruskin, “as the source of all the changefulness and beauty which we have seen in clouds; then as the instrument by which the earth we have contemplated was modelled into