ssured us it was a well authenticated fact, and was generally
regarded as a most delicate _jeu d'esprit_. Not to be behindhand in
the line of cats and monkeys, I was obliged to tell an anecdote of a
Frenchman, who, on his arrival in Algiers, ordered a ragout at one of
the most fashionable restaurants. It was duly served up, and
pronounced excellent, though rather strongly flavored. "Pray," said
the Frenchman to the _maitre d'hotel_, "of what species of cat do you
make ragouts in Algiers?" "Pardon, monsieur," replied the polite host,
"we use nothing but monkeys in Africa!" Disgusted at this colonial
barbarism, the Frenchman immediately returned to Paris, where he
remained forever after, that he might enjoy his customary and more
civilized dish of cat. Herr Batz had not before heard of such a
thing, neither had the young Mechlenberger, and they both agreed that
cats must be a very disgusting article of food. The Russian, however,
seemed to regard it as nothing uncommon, and gave us some very
entertaining accounts of various curious dishes in the interior of
Russia, to which cats were not a circumstance.

[Illustration: GLAZIER, PAINTER, CARPENTERS.]

With such flimsy conversation as this we entertain ourselves till we
reach a village of summer residences on the Kamennoi Island. Here we
pause a while to enjoy the varied scenes of amusement that tempt the
loiterer at every step; the tea-drinking parties out on the porticoes,
the gambling saloons, the dancing pavilions, the cafes, the
confectioneries, with their gay throngs of customers, their gaudy
colors, their music, and sounds of joy and revelry. A little farther
on we come to a stand of carriages, and near by a gate and a large
garden. For thirty kopecks apiece we procure tickets of admission.
This is the Vauxhall of Kamennoi. We jostle in with the crowd, and
soon find ourselves in front of an open theatre.

So passes away the time till the whistle of a little steamer warns us
of an opportunity to get back to the city. Hurrying down to the wharf,
we secure places on the stern-sheets of a screw-wheeled craft not much
bigger than a good-sized yawl. It is crowded to overflowing--in front,
on top of the machinery, in the rear, over the sides--not a square
inch of space left for man or beast. The whistle blows again; the
fiery little monster of an engine shivers and screams with excess of
steam; the grim, black-looking engineer gives the irons a pull, and
away we go at