A march of a dozen miles from this valley over a tortuous mountain trail brings us into a country the existence of which one could never, by any stretch of the imagination, dream of in connection with Persia, as one sees it in its desert-like character south of the mountains.  The transformation is from one extreme of vegetable nature to the other.  We camp for lunch on velvety greensward beneath a grove of oak and cherry trees.  Cuckoos are heard calling round about, singing birds make melody, and among them we both recognize the cheery clickety-click of my raisin-loving Herati friends, the bul-buls.  Flowers, too, are here at our feet in abundance, forget-me-nots and other familiar varieties.

The view from our position is remarkably fine, reminding me forcibly of the Balkans south of Nisch, and of the Californian slopes of the Sierra Nevadas, where they overlook the Sacramento Valley.  The Asterabad Plain is spread out below us like a vast map.

We can trace the windings and twistings of the various streams, the tracts of unreclaimed forest, and the cultivated fields.  Asterabad and numerous villages dot the plain, and by taking R------’s binoculars we can make out, through the vaporous atmosphere, the shimmering surface of the Caspian Sea.  It is one of the most remarkable views I ever saw, and the novelty and grandeur of it appeals the more forcibly to one’s imagination, no doubt, because of its striking contrast to what the eyes have from long usage become accustomed to.  From dreary, barren dasht, and stony wastes, to densely wooded mountains, jungle-covered plains, tall, luxurious tiger-grass, and beyond all this the shimmering background of the sea is a big change to find but little more than a day’s march apart.  We are both captivated by the change, and agree that the Caspian slope is the only part of Persia fit to look at.

The descent of the northern slope is even steeper than the other side; but instead of rocks, it is the rich soil of virgin forests.  Open parks are occasionally crossed, and on one of these we find a large camp of Turcomans, numbering not less than a hundred tents.  Mountaineers are always picturesquely dressed, and so, too, are nomads.  When, therefore, one finds mountaineer nomads, it seems superfluous almost to describe them as being arrayed chiefly in gewgaws and bright-colored clothes.  Camped here amid the dark, luxurious vegetation, they and their tents make a charming picture—­a scene of life and of contrast in colors which if faithfully transferred to canvas would be worth a king’s ransom.

Down paths of break-neck steepness and slipperiness, our way descends into a dark region where vegetation runs riot in the shape of fine tall timber, of a semi-tropical variety.  Many of the trees present a fantastic appearance, by reason of great quantities of hanging moss, that in some instances fairly load down the weaker branches.  Banks of beautiful ferns, and mossy rocks join with the splendid trees in making our march through these northern foothills of the Elburz Mountains an experience long to be remembered.