KAMSCHATKA.
[Illustration: Whisking over the snow with all her might and main,
muffled up in cloaks and furs.
_Page 79._]
LUCY had been disappointed of a drive with the reindeer, and she had
been telling Don how useful his relations were in other places. Behold,
she awoke in a wide plain, where as far as her eye could reach there was
nothing but snow. The few fir-trees that stood in the distance were
heavily laden; and Lucy herself,--where was she? Going very fast? Yes,
whisking over the snow with all her might and main, and muffled up in
cloaks and furs, as indeed was necessary, for her breath froze upon the
big muffler round her throat, so that it seemed to be standing up in a
wall; and by her side was a little boy, muffled up quite as close, with
a cap or rather hood, casing his whole head, his hands gloved in fur up
to the elbows, and long fur boots. He had an immense long whip in his
hand, and was flourishing it, and striking with it--at what? They were
an enormous way off from him, but they really were very big dogs,
rushing along like the wind, and bearing along with them--what? Lucy's
ambition--a sledge, a thing without wheels, but gliding along most
rapidly on the hard snow; flying, flying almost fast enough to take away
her breath, and leaving birds, foxes, and any creature she saw for one
instant, far behind. And--what was very odd--the young driver had no
reins; he shouted at the dogs and now and then threw a stick at them,
and they quite seemed to understand, and turned when he wanted them.
Lucy wondered how he or they knew the way, it all seemed such a waste of
snow; and after feeling at first as if the rapidity of their course
made her unable to speak, she ventured on gasping out, "Well, I've been
in an express train, but this beats it! Where are you going?"
"To Petropawlowsky, to change these skins for whisky and coffee, and
rice," answered the boy.
"What skins are they?" asked Lucy.
"Bears'--big brown bears that Father killed in a cave--and wolves' and
those of the little ermine and sable that we trap. We get much, much for
the white ermine and his black tail. Father's coming in another sledge
with, oh! such a big pile. Don't you hear his dogs yelp? We'll win the
race yet! Ugh! hoo! hoo! hoo-o-o!--On! on! lazy ones, on, I say! don't
let the old dogs catch the young!"
Crack, crack, went the whip; the dogs yelped with eagerness,--they don't
bark, those Northern dogs; the little Kamschatkadale bawled louder and
louder, and never saw when Lucy rolled off behind, and was left in the
middle of a huge snowdrift, while he flew on with his load.
Here were his father's dogs overtaking her; picking her--some one
picking her up. No, it was Don! and here was Mrs. Bunker exclaiming,
"Well, I never thought to find Miss Lucy in no better a place than on
Master's old bearskin!"