al, half a pound of
salt, and a pound and a half of honey. The whole is then placed in an
oven with a moderate fire, and constantly stirred. It is left for a time
to settle, and in the morning the clear liquor is poured off. In a week
it is in the highest perfection."

"I wonder that kwas is not made in England," observed I; "but honey is
not so plentiful there."

"Sugar would make a good substitute, I should think," said Wisky; "the
beverage would not then be an expensive one. But here is our beloved
Whiskerandos busy with his shtshee, the dish of all dishes in this
country, that which nothing, I believe, could ever drive from the table
or the heart of a Russian. When in a foreign land, it is said, it is not
the remembrance of native hills or plains, or the tender delights of
home, that draws tears into an exile's eyes, but the loss of his beloved
shtshee, the favourite dish of his childhood."

"Leave a little for me!" I cried eagerly to Whiskerandos, who had nearly
finished, by dint of steady perseverance, a portion which had been left
in a plate. "Why," I added, as I tasted the liquid, "this seems to me
simply cabbage soup!"

"Whatever my brother may think of it," observed Wisky, dipping his
whiskers into the nearly empty plate, "he is now tasting that which
forms the principal article of food of forty millions of human beings!
Better live without bread than without shtshee."

"And the ingredients?" said I, for I always delighted to pick up any
scrap of information interesting to a rat.

"There are almost as many ways of making shtshee as of cooking potatoes.
I have seen six or seven cabbages chopped up small, half a pound of
butter, a handful of salt, and two pounds of minced mutton added, the
whole mixed up with a can or two of kwas. But it is now time, brothers,
for us to sally forth. I must do the honours of this our city, and show
my illustrious guests whatever I may deem worthy of their observation."

CHAPTER XVII.

A RAMBLE OVER ST. PETERSBURG.

"What a nation of painters Russia must be!" exclaimed I, as we quietly
moved through the silent streets. Every shop had a picture before it,
expressive of the occupation of its owner. Here was a tempting board
covered with representations of every loaf and roll that a painter's
fancy could devise; there a tallow-chandler did his best to make candles
appear picturesque. Even from the second and third floors hung portraits
of fiddles, and flutes, boots