246 THROUGH RUSSIA ON A MUSTANG. 



had now become so affectionate that he would follow 

 me about like a dog — always excepting when I at- 

 tempted to lead the way across a bridge or toward a 

 stream of water when he wasn't thirsty. The horror 

 of wetting his feet and of crossing bridges, which he 

 had exhibited the first day out from Moscow, was at 

 the end of the journey as much of a quarrel between 

 us as at the beginning. 



Occasionally the road led through charming little 

 valleys, with gurgling streams, devoted to the cultiva- 

 tion of pears, plums, and grapes. Vineyards were sur- 

 rounded with stone walls, the handiwork of Greek- 

 proprietors, of which there were a fair sprinkling 

 among the population. Nicopol, Melitopol, Simfero- 

 pol, and the many other 'opols of this part of Russia 



told the story of the old Byzantium Empire. 



Beside the Greeks and Tartars, gypsies were now en- 

 countered, camps of basket-makers by the wayside un- 

 derneath the trees. The women were importunate to 

 sell me a basket or tell my fortune ; the men to buy, sell, 

 or swap a horse. The children ran alongside Texas 

 begging for kopecks ; the very doubles of those who, 

 four years before, had raced beside my bicycle in Hun- 

 gary begging for kreutzers, and again in India, for 

 pice. All were alike, save that those encountered in 

 India had darker skins, teeth of more dazzling white- 

 ness, and eyes even more black and flashing than their 

 relatives of Hungary and the Crimea. 



Nor was the muse forgotten by the good genii of 

 these magic mountains. Wherever there are moun- 

 tains, Greeks, and grapes, the wandering minstrel 

 appears on the scene as a necessary part of the local 



