ress ball or prize races, or otherwise, clad so
thinly as to amaze the shivering foreigner as he hugs his furs.

By day the teamsters stand upon the quay, with rough aprons over their
ballet-skirted sheepskin coats, waiting for a job. If we hire one of
them, we shall find that they all belong to the ancient Russian Artel,
or Labor Union, which prevents competition beyond a certain point. When
the price has been fixed, after due and inevitable chaffering, one
_lomovoi_ grasps his shapeless cap by its worn edge of fur, bites a
kopek, and drops it in. Each of the other men contributes a marked
copper likewise, and we are invited to draw lots, in full view, to
determine which of them shall have the job. The master of the Artel sees
to it that there is fair play on both sides. If an unruly member
presumes to intervene with a lower bid, with the object of monopolizing
the job out of turn, he is promptly squelched, and, though his bid may
be allowed to stand, the man whose kopek we have drawn must do the work.
The winner chee-ee-eeps to his little horse, whose shaggy mane has been
tangled by the loving hand of the _domovoi_ (house-sprite) and hangs to
his knees. The patient beast, which, like all Russian horses, is never
covered, no matter how severe the weather may be, or how hot he may be
from exercise, rouses himself from his real or simulated slumber, and
takes up the burden of life again, handicapped by the huge wooden arch,
gayly painted in flowers and initials, which joins his shafts, and does
stout service despite his sorry aspect.

But the early summer is the season when the Fontanka is to be seen in
its most characteristic state. The brilliant blue water sparkles under
the hot sun, or adds one more tint to the exquisite hues which make of
the sky one vast, gleaming fire-opal on those marvelous "white nights"
when darkness never descends to a depth beyond the point where it leaves
all objects with natural forms and colors, and only spiritualizes them
with the gentle vagueness of a translucent veil. Small steamers, manned
by wooden-faced, blond Finns, connect the unfashionable suburban
quarters, lying near the canal's entrance into the Neva on the west,
with the fashionable Court quarter on the northern quays at its other
entrance into the Neva, seven versts away. They dart about like
sea-gulls, picking their path, not unfraught with serious danger, among
the obstructions. The obstructions are many: washing-house boats