Excerpt from Little Journeys to Russia and Austria-Hungary
Russia is a country where the Ice King reigns half the year; where in winter the rivers freeze so deeply that railroads can be built on them and sledge roads are made the full length of their shining surface; where the lakes are ploughed by huge steamers which instead of cutting the waves bore their way through the ice; where sleighs fly over the slippery streets for so many months of the year that when summer really comes the horses seem unable to slacken their speed, but tear along the road at the same mad pace, dragging the carriages after them.
The thermometer shows so many degrees of cold in this country that one's nose may become frosted before he knows it and have to be rubbed with snow to save it from freezing. The rich bundle up in furs until the city streets look like an animal exhibit, while the poor do not take off their clothing even at bedtime, but lie down to sleep, on top of their immense brick stoves, with their sheepskin coats still on.
For about eight months every year the Russians shiver in the darkness, for the sun rises very late in the morning - long after we Americans have gone to school - and it sets in mid-afternoon.
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