ON THE CZAR'S HIGHWAY. 89 



rolling country, half forest and half fields of tall, ripen- 

 ing rye, from the ridges of which are always visible from 

 three to a dozen little clusters of peasants' houses, and 

 through which the broad government road cuts a wide 

 swath, and you have the landscape of central Russia, in 

 June, before you. 



You have seen it at its best. What it is like in 

 winter, when the forests are bare, the fields a waste 

 of snow, and the red-shirted moujiks asleep on their 

 stoves, can be readily imagined. Even in the holiday 

 garb of June there is a tameness and a sameness in the 

 beauty of the landscape that rob it of half its charms. 

 One longs for a valley or a mountain, and I was con- 

 stantly reminded by the observations of my companion, 

 that for thousands of square versts, in any direction 

 from Moscow, there is the same dearth of variety. 

 A gully a hundred feet deep, or a ridge a couple of 

 hundred feet high, stirred the adventurous soul of 

 Sascha into an expression of wondering delight. Nor 

 could he quite understand why it was that I viewed 

 these trifling variations of the earth's surface without 

 emotion. 



The country passed through sustains a population of 

 forty-five to the square verst. Villages were small, but 

 numerous. We rode through no less than fifty-seven 

 villages, a village for every three and a half versts. 

 They seemed about as thick off the main road as on it. 

 A village usually consists of two rows of log houses, 

 straggling disjointedly along either side of the road. 

 Nine tenths of the houses are unpainted log cabins, 

 thatched with straw ; the tenth would be roofed with 

 tin, and with the house painted red and the roof green. 



