riddles and singing songs. It was, I think, the most pleasant and successful picnic that I ever had the good fortune to enjoy, and when, late in the afternoon, Mr. Frost and I bade the party good-by, I am sure we both secretly wished that

we could stay there in camp for a week instead of going to the Katúnski Alps.

We spent that night at the little Cossack picket of Jingistái, which consisted of two newly built log houses situated in the shallow, flower-carpeted valley of the Búkhtarmá,