Soldiers of the garrison strolled about quietly, as usual.  The pet of the hussars was in great form, and his escort of admiring comrades was larger than ever.  They thrust upon him half of their tidbits and sunflower seeds,—­what masses of sunflower seeds and handbill cigarettes were consumed that day, not to mention squash seeds, by the more opulent!—­and waited eagerly for his dimpled smile as their reward.  When the bands were weary, the regimental singers ranged themselves in a circle, and struck up songs of love, of battle, and of mirth, amid the applause and laughter of the crowd.  Now and then a soldier would step into the middle of the circle and dance.  The slight, agile, square-capped stryelki spun round until their full-plaited black tunics stood out from their tightly belted waists like the skirts of ballet dancers.  The slender, graceful hussars, with their yellow-laced scarlet jackets and tight blue trousers, flitted to and fro like gay birds.  The best performer of all was a cuirassier, a big blond fellow, with ruddy cheeks and dazzling teeth.  Planting his peakless white cloth cap with its yellow band firmly on his head, he stepped forward, grasping in each hand a serried pyramid of brass bells, which chimed merrily as he squatted, leaped, and executed eccentric steps with his feet, while his arms beat time and his fine voice rolled out the solo of a rollicking ballad, to which the rest of the company furnished the chorus as well as their laughter and delighted applause of his efforts permitted.  His tightly fitting dark green trousers, tall boots, and jacket of white cloth trimmed with yellow set off his muscular form to great advantage.  A comrade stood by, shaking the buntchuk, an ornamental combination of brass half-moons, gay horsetails, and bells, —­the Turkish staff of command, which is carried as a special privilege by several Russian cavalry regiments.  There is nothing that a company of Russians likes better than a spirited performance of their national dances, whether it be high-class Russians at a Russian opera in the Imperial Theatre, or the masses on informal occasions like the present.  This soldier, who danced with joy in every fibre, was quite willing to oblige them indefinitely, and seemed to be made of steel springs.  He stopped with great reluctance, and that only when his company was ordered peremptorily to march off to barracks at the appointed hour.

How many weddings resulted from that day’s dress parade I know not.  But I presume the traditional “match-makers” did their duty, if the young men were sufficiently impressed by the girls’ outfits to commission these professional proposers to lay their hearts and hands at the feet of the parents on the following day.  They certainly could not have been hopelessly bewitched by any beauty which was on show.  The presence of the soldiers, the singing, music, and dancing, framed in that exquisite park, combined to create a scene the impression of which is far beyond comparison with that of the same parade in the Summer Garden at St. Petersburg.