ttleben, rode by the side of the officer
of the Cossacks. He pranced his pony about, and was cheerful and jolly
like his comrades, the merry sons of the steppe. As they reached the
gate they halted their horses, and gazed with evident pleasure on the
desert, wild, sandy plain, which stretched out before them.

"How beautiful that is!" exclaimed Petrowitsch, the hetman of the
Cossacks. "Just look--what a handsome steppe!"

"Just such a fine sand steppe as at home in our own country!" sighed
one of the Cossacks, beginning to hum a song of his home.

"This is the finest scenery I have seen in Germany," cried another.
"What a pleasure it would be to race over this steppe!"

"Come on, then, let us get up a race over this splendid steppe," said
a fourth, "and let us sing one of the songs we are used to at home."

"Yes, agreed! let us!" cried all, ranging quickly their horses in
line.

"Wait a moment," cried Ivan; "I can't sing, you all know, and I've
only one sweetheart, and that's my pipe. Let me then light my pipe
so that I can smoke." He struck fire with his steel, and lighting
the tinder, placed it in the bowl of his pipe. No one saw the
sad, shuddering look which he cast at the glowing tinder and his
spark-scattering pipe. "Now forward, boys, and sing us a lively song
from home," said Ivan.

"Hurrah! hurrah!"

They charge over the beautiful plain, and sing in a pealing chorus,
the favorite song of the Cossack, at once so soft and sad:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee?"

Big tears ran down poor Ivan's cheek. No one saw them, no one observed
him. He charged with the others over the Berlin steppe, and blew the
smoke out of his pipe. No one heard the sad sighs which he uttered as
he drew nearer and nearer to the powder-mills. No one heard the sad
words of parting which he muttered to himself as his comrades sang:

"Lovely Minka! must I leave thee,
Leave my happy, heather plains?
Ah! this parting does not grieve thee,
Though still true my heart remains.
Far from thee I roam,
Sadly see the sunbeams shining,
Lonely all the night I'm pining
Far from thee alone."

They reach the powder-mills; the Cossacks halt their horses and spring
from their saddles.

Slowly and hesitatingly does Ivan proceed; he passes about his pipe;
he puffs at the tobacco to make it burn, and smoke more freely.

And now all's right. The pipe is alight. Like brilliant eyes of fire
the burning tobacco shines ou