Daily Kennebec journal. [microfilm reel] (Augusta, Me.) 1870-1975, 1871-10-23
Misfellaileons.
THE THREE MASKED MEN.

uriVer' pointing to few spots of light that
twinkle along the darkening skyline; "and
Wen be there in another quarter of an hour
II 1t please heaven. Lucky for us that it
Is not winter time, or we'd have the gray
coats wolves at our heels before we got
i'm
care there many Of them about here in
winter ?" asked l
MANY OF them A great deal too many.
Why, it was only last winter" he goes on,
with a genuinely Russian love of frighten-
ing, himself and other people, 'that a
siedge came into the village, which had
oeen attacked by wolves close to where we
are now, on a dark windy evening Just
like this one; and they gobbled 1p the
driver and the horses, and everything but
the sledge itself-and that was a good deal
scratched"
"But if they ate up the horses, how did
the sledge get to the village?"
'Ah, BARN !" answered the old rogue
with chuckle, "that's not my affair"
Our days work has been a long and hard
one, as may be seen by the smoking fanks
and quivering nostrils of our horses, and
the country through which we have passed
IS not such as one loves to linger over.
Picturesqueness, in the ordinary sense of
the word, is sadly wanting to Russia
proper. All her best scenery is to be
found in regions lately wrested from other
powers-Finland, the Caucasus, the
Crimea. Nor is the monotony of her
boundless plains diversified by the abun-
dance of life, which relieves the fatness
pof Holland and the Netherlands. Siberia
Is peopled at the rate of one inhabitant to
three square miles. The vast prairies of
Central Russia are little if at all more pop
ulous. The new railway from Kleva to
Balta runs for at least half its length
through chaos of uncleared forests.
The banks of the Volga, for leagues to-
gether, are silent and desoIate as those of
the Amazon. Along the whole course of
the Lower Don, from Kalatch to within a
few hours sail to Rostov. there is not
single town-hardly even village worth
calling such-to break the monotony of
the voiceless solitudes through which it
flows. And even upon the famous "black
soil, every spadeful of which is worth
kings ransom, one may travel for days
without seeing human habitation except
stray liquor-shop, OF meeting human
being except an occasional robber.
While slipping my tea and mulching the
black bread wherewith my hosts wife, a
stout, fresh-looking woman of five-and-
thirty, supplies me ad libitum, 1
glance round the room, which is merely
an enlarged and ornamented copy of what
| have seen in every hamlet on my road.
The heavy crossbeams of the roof, the
rough-hewn chairs and tables, the huge
tea urn, the gilt-edge picture of saint in
the far corner, with small lamp burning
before it. the enormous stove, on the
broad, flat top of which my entertainers
are wont to sleep in winter, the broad,
clumsy bed with its patchwork coverlet,
are all there. And there, too, on the op-
posite side of the room is the huge, paint
ed chest, barred and banded with iron,
which is the Russian peasants pride and
glory, in which he keeps his Sunday
clothes and whatever valuables Ae may
possess, and upon the painting and deco
rating OF which he often expends sum
which it must cost him MANY a hard DAYS
labor and many supperless night to
raise.
But even in their first hasty survey of the
surroundings, my eyes have time to re-
mark one object, which is the very last
one would expect to find under the roof of
a Russian peasant, whose sole weapon is
usually the short axe with which he chops
his tirewood, puts together his furniture,
builds his log hut, and occasionally splits
the head of his wife or father. Just oppo-
site where l sit, hanging upon nail in
the wall, is a large pistol, evidently un-
used for a considerable time, to Judge by
the rust which covers it. Our friend, the
starosta. following the direction of my
glance, gives significant chuckle.
There's something to look at Barin,"
says he, nodding in the direction of the
weapon. You don't often see those toys
in our shops, do youP
'Well, indeed, brother, it's hardly the
sort of thing one would expect to see so
far from the town. Do you keep it to
shoot the 'tarakans' (cockroaches) WITH"
My host gives hoarse believing laugh,
at this not very brilliant joke, echoed by
the shriller treble of his wife, and cross
ing the room, takes down the pistol from
its perch and lays it upon the table. Some
letters branded into the stock catch my
eye, and holding it up in the light, read
"April ii, 1862" for the answer to the
enigma.
II wrote that" says he with the air of
Carolanus. 'Alone | did it.n II can
write and read, too, or | shouldn't be
starosta now All the first time | wrote
my own name, l felt as grand as lila Mu-
rometz !"
what tries my gravity, though I had al
ready seen the same thing once and again
during my travels in the interior. The
Russian peasants reverence for the power
of talking by making marks in a book
is almost superstitious; and l recollect be-
ing considerably amused at overhearing
Il rough-hewn fellow, with whom i had
lodged in one of the remoter villages, af-
ter reciting to an attentive circle my feats
in walking, runni,1 g, climbing and leap
ing. wind up with, "And he knows how
to write"
That was the day that got this pistol"
pursues my Amphitryon; ''and good ser
vice he did me that day If it hadn't 7 been
for him, should have lost good hand
full of money, and mayhap my life in the
bargain ~
,'Ah! how did that happenP' asked l.
This is Just the time for a good story;
suppose you tell me all about it before
lrrrn in u