novels, some political pamphlets, a translation of John Morley’s _Compromise_, and an essay on Ruskin--a strange medley of literary food. At the newspaper kiosk the newsvendor is so busily engrossed in reading out a story which had just appeared in the newspapers of how a saintly peasant killed a baby because he thought it was the Antichrist, that it is impossible to get him to pay any attention to one. He is reading out the story to an audience consisting of the policeman, one of the porters, and a kind of sub-guard. The story is, indeed, a curious one, and has caused a considerable stir; and I intend to relate it at a future date.[2] [2] See page 214. The journey to Tambov was long; in my carriage was a railway official who drank tea, ate apples, and sighed over the political condition of the country. Everything was as bad as could be. “It is a heavy business,” he said, “living in Russia now.” Then, after some reflection, he added: “But, perhaps in other countries, in England for instance, people sometimes find fault with the Government.” I told him they did little else. He then took a large roll out of a basket, and, after he had been munching it for some time, he said: “After all there is no country in the world where such good bread can be got as this.” And this seemed to console him greatly. The sunflower season has arrived. Sunflowers are grown in great quantities in Russia, not for ornamental or decorative purposes but for utilitarian purposes. They are grown for the oil that is in them; but besides being useful in many ways they form an article of food. You pick the head of the sunflower and eat the seeds. You bite the seed, spit out the husk, and eat the kernel, which is white and tastes of sunflower. Considerable skill is needed when cracking the husk and spitting it out to leave the kernel intact. This habit is universal among the lower classes in Russia. It occupies a human being like smoking, and it is a pleasant adjunct to contemplation. It is also conducive to untidiness. Nothing is so untidy in the world as a room or a platform littered with sunflower seeds. All platforms in Russia are thus littered at this time of year. When I was on the steamer at Tzaritsin one of the Cossacks approached me with this question, which seemed startling: “Do you chew seeds?” At first I was at a loss to think what he meant, but I soon remembered the sunflower, and when I had answered in the affirmative he produced a great handful of dried seeds and offered them to me. I had to change three times on the way to my destination, which was the environs of Tambov. During one of the journeys the carriage, a kind of first-class saloon carriage, was occupied by a cashier carrying money, and he had with him two gendarmes with loaded rifles so as to guard him, since assaults on cashiers with the object of robbery are not becoming less frequent. On the small lines the first-class carriages are often saloon carriages in which any seat makes into a bed.