Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - IV. Through the Forest-Region
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Suddenly in a grove of larch-trees I come upon two
Shaman graves, constructed of hollowed-out stems of trees
resting on a wooden scaffolding, the poles of which are
ornamented by rough images of birds placed upon their
summits. [1]
As I sit down to look on these solitary graves, which
hold the remnants of the seers of the taiga, a loud groaning
sound comes up from the far distance, growing rapidly in
volume as it approaches, nearing and nearing till it moves
among the tops of the trees around me, which it shakes
and tears at viciously, finally dying away in the endless
stretch of forest behind. A short pause, and from another
direction my ear catches the sound as from a choir of
instruments out of tune, increasing to a wild and hideous
howl. The taiga is roaring with rage at the intrusion of
the stranger, or perchance the spirits of its prophets are
angry with the audacious one who has ventured to tread
the sacred groves of their last resting-place.[2]
Such to the traveller, perhaps, the taiga may appear—a
gigantic prison or a pandemonium of howling spirits; but
to the first immigrant from “little mother” Russia, it
presented itself as a new world of struggle for life, a stern reality
which remodelled his life and character. He brought with
him the memory of merry scenes on the shores of the
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