* The present Emperor, Nicholas II.

But everything is not royal in the vicinity of these summer parks and palaces.  For example, just outside of Tzarskoe Selo, on the Petersburg highway, lies a Russian village called Kuzmino, whose inhabitants are as genuine, unmodified peasants as if they lived a hundred miles from any provincial town.  Here in the north, where timber is plentiful, cottages are raised from the ground by a half-story, without windows, which serves as a storeroom for carts, sledges, and farming implements.  The entrance is through a door beside the large courtyard gate, which rears its heavy frame on the street line, adjoining the house, in Russian fashion.  A rough staircase leads to the dwelling-rooms over the shed storeroom.  Three tiny windows on the street front, with solid wooden shutters, are the ordinary allowance for light.  In Kuzmino, many of the windows had delicate, clean white curtains, and all were filled with blooming plants.  A single window, for symmetry, and a carved balcony fill in the sharp gable end of such houses, but open into nothing, and the window is not even glazed.  Carved horses’ heads, rude but recognizable, tuft the peak, and lacelike wood carving droops from the eaves.  The roofs also are of wood.

This was the style of the cottages in Kuzmino.  The name of the owner was inscribed on the corner of each house; and there appeared to be but two surnames, at most three, in the whole village.  One new but unfinished house seemed to have been built from the ridgepole downward, instead of in the usual order.  There were no doorways or stairs or apertures for communication between the stories, which were two in number.  It was an architectural riddle.

As a stroll to the village had consumed an unexpected amount of time, we found ourselves, at the breakfast hour, miles away from our hotel.  We instituted a search for milk, and were directed at random, it seemed, until a withered little old peasant, who was evidently given to tippling, enlisted himself as our guide.  He took us to the house of a woman who carried milk and cream to town twice a week, and introduced us with a comical flourish.

The family consisted of an old woman, as dried and colorless as a Russian codfish from Arkhangel, but very clean and active; her son, a big, fresh-colored fellow, with a mop of dark brown curls, well set off by his scarlet cotton blouse; his wife, a slender, red-cheeked brunette, with delicate, pretty features; and their baby girl.  They treated us like friends come to make a call; refused to accept money for their cream; begged us to allow them to prepare the samovar, as a favor to them, and send for white rolls, as they were sure we could not eat their sour black bread; and expressed deep regret that their berries were all gone, as the season was past.  They showed us over their house in the prettiest, simplest way, and introduced us to the dark storeroom where their spare clothing