istance to
oppression is wholly foreign to the Kamchadal character _now_,
whatever it may have been in previous ages of independence. They will
suffer and endure any amount of abuse and ill-treatment, without any
apparent desire for revenge, and with the greatest good-nature and
elasticity of spirit. They are as faithful and forgiving as a dog. If
you treat them well, your slightest wish will be their law; and they
will do their best in their rude way to show their appreciation of
kindness, by anticipating and meeting even your unexpressed wants.
During our stay at Lesnoi the Major chanced one day to inquire for
some milk. The _starosta_ did not tell him that there was not a cow
in the village, but said that he would try to get some. A man was
instantly despatched on horseback to the neighbouring settlement of
Kinkil, and before night he returned with a champagne-bottle under his
arm, and the Major had milk that evening in his tea. From this time
until we started for Gizhiga--more than a month--a man rode twenty
miles every day to bring us a bottle of fresh milk. This seemed to be
done out of pure kindness of heart, without any desire or expectation
of future reward; and it is a fair example of the manner in which we
were generally treated by all the Kamchadals in the peninsula.

The settled natives of northern Kamchatka have generally two different
residences, in which they live at different seasons of the year. These
are respectively called the "zimovie" or winter settlement, and the
"letovie" (let'-o-vye) or summer fishing-station, and are from one to
five miles apart. In the former, which is generally situated under
the shelter of timbered hills, several miles from the seacoast, they
reside from September until June. The _letovie_ is always built near
the mouth of an adjacent river or stream, and consists of a few
_yurts_ or earth-covered huts, eight or ten conical _balagans_ mounted
on stilts, and a great number of wooden frames on which fish are hung
to dry. To this fishing-station the inhabitants all remove early in
June, leaving their winter settlement entirely deserted. Even the dogs
and the crows abandon it for the more attractive surroundings and
richer pickings of the summer _balagans._ Early in July the salmon
enter the river in immense numbers from the sea, and are caught by the
natives in gill-nets, baskets, seines, weirs, traps, and a dozen other
ingenious contrivances--cut open, cleaned, and boned by th