As soon as it was light the mowers all got up and began mowing. I do not know which was the more beautiful effect, that of the dusk or of the dawn. The dawn was gray with pearly clouds and suffused with the faintest pink tinge, and in the east the sun rose like a great red ball with no clouds near it. At ten o’clock we drove to an inn and had tea; then we drove back, and the hay, although it was quite wet, for it had rained in the night, was carried there and then. “The women dry it at home,” Feodor explained; “it’s too far for us to come here twice.” The carts were laden with hay, and I drove one of them home, lying on the top of the hay, in my sleep. I had always envied the drivers of carts whom one meets lying on a high load of hay, fast asleep, and now I know from experience that there is no such delicious slumber, with the kind sun warming one through and through after a cold night, and the slow jolting of the wagon rocking one, and the smell of the hay acting like a soporific. Every now and then one wakes up to see the world through a golden haze, and then one falls back and drowns with pleasure in a deep slumber of an inexpressibly delicious quality. When we re-crossed the river we again stopped for tea. As we were standing outside an old woman passed us, and just as she passed one of the peasants said to me, “Sit down, Barine.” Barine, I suppose everybody knows, means a _monsieur_, in contradistinction to the lower class. “Very like a Barine,” said the woman, with a sarcastic snort, upon which the peasant told her in the plainest and most uncomplimentary speech I have ever heard exactly what he thought of her personal appearance, her antecedents, and what she was fit for. She passed on with dignity and in silence. Then, after a time, I climbed up on the wagon again, and sank back into my green paradise of dreams, and remember nothing more till we arrived home at five o’clock in the evening. ST. PETERSBURG, _August 6th_. At a moment like this, when one meets with various conflicting statements made by people in authority, Government officials or Liberal leaders, as to what the Russian people, the real people, are thinking and feeling, it seemed to me that it would be worth while to put aside theoretical speculations for a moment, and to try to obtain some small fragments of first-hand evidence with regard to what the people are saying and thinking. With this object in view I have spent the last four nights in the train between Moscow and St. Petersburg. My field of observation was necessarily small, but it cannot be called unrepresentative or anti-national.