t a breath of air has stirred since the fine snow came in the
night and "ridged each twig inch deep with pearl." What a sight it would
have been if the sun had come up. Wisconsin, we think of you as we
traverse these bluffs. You tenth verst, you break a beautiful scene on
us with your trail across the valley. You courageous little pony, you
deserve to eat all that hay you are lugging up that hill. Your load is
not any worse than that of the pony behind who hauls a giant log on two
sleds. You deserve better treatment, Loshad. When Russia grows up to an
educated nation animal power will be conserved.

Here we see the primitive saw mill. Perched high on a pair of horses is
a great log. Up and down cuts the long-toothed saw. Up pulls the man on
top. Down draws the man on the ground. Something is lacking--it is the
snap-ring that we so remember from boyhood wood-cutting days in
Michigan.

Here we are back to the river again and another picturesque scene with
its formidable hill--Verst 18. But we get on fast for the end is in
sight. The windmill for grinding grain tells us a considerable village
is near. We arrive and stop on the top of the hill in the home of a
merchant-peasant, Lopatkin: a fine home--house plants and a big clock
and a gramophone. It is cold, for the Russian stove has not been fired
since morning--great economy of fuel in a land of wood.

To KHOLMOGORA--FOURTH DAY, DECEMBER 21ST

Harbinger of hope! Oh you red sky line! Shall we see the sun today?

It is 8:00 a. m. and from our hill top the wide red horizon in the south
affords a wonderful scene. In the distance, headlands on the Dvina cut
bold figures into the red. Far, far away stretches the flat river. Now
we are safely down the long, steep hill and assembled on the river.
Sergeant Getzloff narrowly escapes death from a reckless civilian's pony
and sleigh. We crawl along the east shore for a verst and then cross
squarely to the other side, facing a cold, harsh wind. What a wonderful
subject for a picture. Tall pines--tallest we have yet seen in Russia,
on the island lift their huge trunks against the red, the broad red band
on the skyline. And now, too, the upland joins itself to the scene.

The going is drifty and sternly cold. Broad areas allow the biting wind
full sweep. Ears are covered and hands are thrashed. That "stolen horse"
pole there may be a verst post. Sure enough, and "5," it says, "16 to
go." Look now for the barber poles. We are too la