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I remember being still a student of Class V or VI, I rode with my grandfather from Rural Big strong, the Don region, in Rostov-on-Don. Day was August, sultry, languorous, boring. From hot and dry, hot air, kept whirling clouds of dust, eyes were closing, went dry in the mouth; did not want to look, speak or think, and, when the sleepy driver, crest Carpo, to hit a horse, slashed me with his whip on his cap, I do not protested, nor uttered a sound, but, recovering from half-asleep, and miserably looked meekly into the distance: not to be seen whether the village through the dust? Feeding horses We stayed in a large Armenian village Baktchi Salah from a friend grandfather rich Armenian. Never in my life have I seen anything of a caricature Armenian. Imagine a small, shaven head, thick, low bushy eyebrows, avian nose with a long gray mustache and a wide mouth, from which protrudes a long cherry hookah; head was clumsily glued to the skinny, little body, dressed in fantastic costume: in skimpy red jacket and wide, bright-blue breeches went to this figure, spreading his legs and a shuffling gait, said, without taking his mouth Chubuk, and behaved with a purely Armenian dignity: no smiling, no puchila eyes tried to ignore his guests as much as possible attention.