ON THE CRIMEAN STEPPES. 245 



the hands of the Tartars, that simple, spontaneous 

 hospitality which had charmed me, years before, among 

 the Turks of Asia Minor. The day before, I was 

 among a grasping, overcharging set of Crimean Jews, 

 who had charged me for the privilege of watering 

 Texas at their well ; now I was invited to halt, and 

 help myself to melons, by a Tartar who refused money 

 when I offered to pay. 



The remainder of the ride to Sevastopol was over 

 mountainous, stony roads, for the most part a govern- 

 ment military chaussie. This chaussee connects Sevas- 

 topol with Simferopol, the governmental capital of the 

 Crimea, and is in slow process of extension to the 

 north. The idea is to eventually connect it with the 

 road I had followed from Moscow to Kharkoff. 



Though hilly and frightfully hot, the novelty of the 

 change was keenly appreciated, though probably less 

 so by Texas than his rider. His compensation for the 

 hills he had to climb was the novel luxury of slices of 

 watermelon, and the rinds of the same, which he 

 seemed to relish as keenly as the green maize with 

 which, a few days before, I had cajoled him into for- 

 getting Sascha's horse and warming toward his master. 

 By this time the remarkably social disposition which 

 had formerly distinguished him in his demeanor to- 

 ward his equine associate had developed into some- 

 thing more than mere sociability toward the only com- 

 panion he now had to claim his attentions. 



Whether it was the magic influence of green maize 

 and slices of watermelon, or because I had, during the 

 past few days, fed him chiefly on barley, which he 

 liked better than oats, was past finding out ; but he 



