SINGING SOLDIERS OF RUSSIA.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 6, Issue 274, 11 May 1917, Page 2 (Supplement)

SINGING SOLDIERS OF RUSSIA.

PEASANTS WHO ARE POETS AND WARRIORS TOO.

By ROSAMUND BOULTBEE

Since my return from Russia I have had an uneasy feeling that all the education and advancement of Great Britain has failed to bring about a completely satisfactory condition of affairs. In Russia, where tho peasant population ; s 80 per cent, of the whole, and but few of these can read or write, they THlNK—and their thinking is simple and straight, resulting in a poetic typo of expression which astonishes and almost, I might say, shames the Western European, so struck is he by the foreefulnesa of it.

Invariably in Russia largo buildings containing many flats are built round a largo flag-stoned courtyard. At my Odessa abode two of the flats were occupied for some weeks bj 180 newly (ailed Russian soldiers from Samara, on the Volga. I contented myself for several days with just watching them. They were wonderfully quiet and wellbehaved, and used to go through all sorts of schoolboy play in the square: leap frog and walking about three tiers high were favourite games. At times they wero very busy overhauling their clothes and hanging out their washing. Just to watch them, however, fid nob wholly content me; so I said " Stradsvoutio" (Good-day). From then on we were great friends. They wero never ashamed to ask questions"; and I, with my limited knowledge of Russian, tried to answer them. One evening, when f came home with two books under my nrm, a number of soliders took me prisoner and said they would not let me free until I had shown them the pictures in the books. I did so, and our conversation was something like thte : "Barignia Anglichanka?" (Miss is English:") they asked. "Yes, English, from Canada—Angliskie Colony." This puzzled them for a while, but one seemed to understand, and they all repeated "Canada Angliskie Colony." "Bst," I saidj " won't you tell me your names:-'"—and they all wanted to*tell mo at once, shouting " Yagor'e (or Littlo Gregor) Ivanoff," "Alexander Malahie," "Mihiel Mihieloviteh," "Bootra Pavel," " Ivan Misnaenka," and " Alexie Afor."

OLD FOLK SOXGS.

"Bangnia will write a book?" asked Little Gregor. "Yes? Do you hear that, Bootra Pavel ? Barignia wiH write a book, and there'll be lots of pictures and our names in it." Then there was a chorus of their favourite expression: "How very interesting!" - Do you mind going to the war?" I osked of Alexie Afor, and he replied, "In truth, I can't say that I do." "Are you not cold; you wear no coats?'' I asked. "No. it's not cold here; it is cold up on the Volga; there we have thirty degrees of frost, and the httle birds" here Alexie wiggled his clumsy fingers, " flutter down into the leaves and die."

" The girls don't like us here at Odessa," said ilihiel. "Surely vou are mistaken," I cried. "No! they like the sailors from the Black Sea Fleet, with tho orange-striped ribbom round their caps." "Thank goodness, the Black Sea Fleet cannot get up the Volga River—or then we'd have no ehanoe at all," said Little Gregor. At this point a most terrifying command was given by tho sergeant. I asked what it wan, and it seemed that he had called out to his men to stop crowding too near to the Anglichanka and "to come and sine for her." 6

I wish I could take aUJovers of music out to Russia, just to hear those peasant soldiers sing in such harmony and with such perfect rhythm. The night was dark, and they formed a circle four deep around the sergeant conductor, and sang their Volga folk eongs, their hands in their pockets, their grev astrakan caps well back on their heads, keeping time as they swayed from foot to foot. It was strangelv sweet and caressing music. These old Volga folk songs have never been written. The airs are simply handed down from generation to generation.

THE "PAPIEROSSI."

I slipped out into the street nearlv knockng over the old bun woman at tho gote with a clothes basket full of her wares. One of her kind is always to be found near where soldiers lodge; and I bought a box of "papierossi" (cigl arettee) All the boys held out their hands for some of my purchase, and soon the dark courtyard was bright with myriads of little lights flickering like glow-worms. "We'll sing for yon all night if you give us papierossi," said Alexie Afor; and willingly would I hare stopped to listen.

ITiesc are the men who are fighting as no other men can fight, obedientlv, willingly, unknown to all but their people "up home." a word which has, perhaps greater significance an Russia than in any other country. Here in London, where streets are dark and war news i 6 dimmed in our ears, and one is perplexed by much conflicting information, my mind travels back to the courtyard "in Odessa and the singing soldiers,. who taught me how great a thing is simplicity; and I feel that could I see the Russian casualty lists I would scan them as eagerly as tho British record, fearful for" the danger, hopeful for the safety of Alexie Afor, Rootra Pavel, Little <Jregor, and my other soldier friends from Samara, back on the Volga River.