68 THE RED FOREST AND 



stayed till nightfall, when the myriads of veno- 

 mous mosquitoes, which make their home amongst 

 these reeds, drove them out, preferring death at the 

 hands of the Cossacks to slow torture from their 

 insect foes.' This is only a tradition, my authority 

 my yemstchik ; but from what I have seen of these 

 pests myself, I have little doubt of its truth. 



The cold is getting quite severe already ; nil 

 the quail have gone, and last night there was a full 

 orchestra of wolves outside the post- station. At 

 the end of three days we pulled up at the St. 

 Petersburg Hotel, Ekaterinodar, and if anything 

 can be worse than post-travelling in Russia, it would 

 be the disappointment you suffer in the so-called 

 hotel accommodation. One of a long corridor in 

 the stable-yard, with only too ample ventilation, 

 my room stands a whited sepulchre, with an iron 

 bedstead, a wooden table, a mattress, sheet, and 

 dirty cushion, no washing utensils of any kind, no 

 bedclothes, a wicker chair, a broken bottle half full 

 of doubtful water, and bare boards beneath. Such 

 is the lodging. For attendance, one dirty little 

 boy about twelve, and a pigmy for his age, waits 

 apparently on every one in the house. The cook- 

 ing, though not first-rate, is the hotel's greatest 

 attraction. Some one talks about man's heartiest 

 welcome being at an inn. If he had ever tried a 

 Russian inn, he would have reconsidered that state- 

 ment. Most of the guests at the table-cFhote are 



