Straight was diplomatic enough to mention every proper name in right order and the result was a round of congratulation and merriment. In the meantime the leisurely and accommodating train was waiting, so we hurried back to the station at the terrific pace usual to the Russian with his beautiful horses. No people not inherently fine could ever produce the kind of horses one sees in Russia. And the Russians love them. I can think of nothing more pleasing than the picture of a great, shaggy, gruff-voiced Russian coachman on the box of his carriage or droshky, gently urging his well-kept horse on to his best speed in terms of endearment. “On, Little Brother!” says he.