SPORT IN THE CRIMEA. 



more frightful to a novice in Russia than the 

 droshky I cannot conceive. This instrument of 

 torture is a combination of untrimmed logs and 

 ropes and wheels, with cruelly insinuating iron 

 bands, merciless knots, and ubiquitous splinters. 

 Manage your seat how you will, you are bound to 

 keep bumping up and down, and at each descent 

 you land on something more painful than that you 

 have encountered before. 



In spite of all this, as the droshky leaves the town, 

 the old German jitger breaks out into a hunting 

 ditty, and, truth to tell, until the wind is fairly 

 jogged out of us we are a very noisy party. Then 

 we try to light our cigarettes and pipes, and if we 

 are lucky, only have the hot ashes jerked on to our 

 next neighbour's knee. Gradually the dawning 

 light increases, the clouds of pearly grey are 

 reddening, and the long undulating swell of the 

 steppeland slowly unfolds itself around us. On 

 our left are the Straits of Kertch, the sea looking 

 still and hazy, with some half-dozen English 

 steamers lording it amongst the mosquito fleet of 

 fruiterers and lighters which fills the bay. All 

 round us are chains of those small hills, whose 

 dome-like tops proclaim them tumuli of kings and 

 chiefs who went to rest ages ago, when the town 

 behind us was still a mighty city, rejoicing in the 

 name of Panticapa3um. 



Once clear of the ranges of tumuli or kour- 



