habitation, and where the cliffs on one side and the forest on the other seem to be parts of a vast primeval wilderness.
Fascinated by the picturesque beauty of the majestic Vólga and the ever-changing novelty of the scenes successively presented to us as we crossed from side to side, or swept around great bends into new landscapes and new reaches of tranquil water, we could not bear to leave the hurricane deck until long after dark.
The fresh, cool air was then filled with the blended fragrance of flowery meadows and damp forest glens; the river lay like an expanse of shining steel between banks whose impenetrable blackness was intensified rather than relieved by a few scattered spangles of light; and from some point far away in the distance came the faint voice of a timber rafter, or a floating fisherman, singing that song dear to the heart of every Russian boatman—V'nis po mátushke po Vólge [Down the Mother Vólga].
After drinking a few tumblers of fragrant tea at the little center-table in the steamer's small but cozy cabin, we un-
