238 THRO UGH R US SI A ON A M US TA JVC 



day. To the wayfarer, they are the oasis of the 

 steppe ; and the stages of his journey are from one 

 well to another. 



At noon on a hot summer's day there may be as 

 many as fifty people about one of these wells, not one 

 of whom will be there at sundown. There may be 

 ten thousand merino sheep and a dozen Tartar shep- 

 herds, who will be snoozing the hot hours away inside 

 their curious tent-carts, standing in the midst of their 

 respective flocks. They have shepherd dogs that have 

 more wool on them than the wooliest sheep in the 

 flock. Some of these odd-looking canines are so 

 loaded down with wool, which grows particularly 

 heavy on the legs, that they almost seem incapable of 

 waddling along. Wool-growing is one of the principal 

 industries of the southern steppes, and the favorite 

 sheep seems to be the merino. 



On Wednesday morning, August 6, I reached the 

 town of Perekop, and was gratified by a glimpse of 

 the Black Sea — a welcome enough sight after the 

 monotony of the drouthy steppe. Perekop was an 

 abominably hot and dusty hole, containing not one 

 redeeming feature beyond its nearness tathe sea. A 

 few wooden shops and vodka-drinking dens, houses, gov- 

 ernment buildings, and a postayali dvor were scattered 

 over an area of gray, verdureless soil, in size out of all 

 proportion to the number of inhabitants dwelling on 

 it — this was Perekop. Situated on the narrowest part 

 of the isthmus that connects the Crimean Peninsula 

 with the body of Russia, one may stand on the roof of 

 one of its houses and see the Black Sea on one side 

 and the Azov on the other. 



