Thunder and lightning are frequent throughout May, but the thunderstorm on the steppe is, comparatively, but a poor kind of spectacle, there being neither trees nor rocks for the lightning to show his might upon, nor mountains, by their reverberating echoes, to give increased majesty to the peaHng artillery of heaven ; but these discharges of atmospheric electricity, though they want the grandeur of the Alpine tempest, are dear to the people of the steppe, where they are always accompanied either by showers or night dews, so that as long as it thunders there is no lack of fodder for the cattle. In June, the lightning ceases to play, and the periodical drought announces its approach, the whole month passing frequently away without depositing a particle of moisture on the ground. The consequences of this begin to manifest themselves in July, when the heated soil cracks in every direction, opening its parched lips m supplication for a few drops of water that are not vouchsafed. Heavy and tantalizing clouds, it is true, sweep over the steppe, but instead of showering their blessings on the thirsty land, hurry away to the Carpathian mountains or to the sea. The sun at this season rises and sets like a globe of fire, but the evaporations raised from the earth by the mid-day heat seldom fall to give a misty appearance to the sky towards noon. The heat, meanwhde, is rendered intolerable by its duration, for any thing like a cool interval never occurs, and shade is not to be thought of in a country where hills and trees are ahke unknown. This season is one of great suffering to all living beings on the steppe. Every trace of vegetation is singed away, except in a few favoured spots ; the surface of the ground becomes browner and browner, and at last completely black. Men and cattle assume a lean and haggard look, and the wild oxen and horses, so fierce and ungovernable in May, become as tame as lambs in July, and can scarcely crawl in August. Even the tanned skin of the poor Khakhoh (as the Russians call the inhabitants of the steppe) hangs in wrinkled folds upon their hollow cheeks ; their steps are feeble, and every thing about them assumes a melancholy and dejected look. Ponds dry up, wells cease to furnish water, and the beds of lakes are converted into sandy hollows. Water now rises in price, and becomes an article which it is worth a thief's while to steal. The few springs that continue to yield nmst have a guard set upon them night and day, or the legitimate owner will scarcely keep enough to slake his own tliirst. At this season thousands of cattle perish on the steppe of thirst, while, as if to mock their sufterings, the horizon seems laden with humid clouds, and the parched soil assumes to the cheated eye in the distance the appearance of crystal lakes and running streams. Such is the faithful picture of a dry summer on the steppe, but, of course, the description does not apply every year. The years 1837 and 1838, for instance, were remarkable for their humidity; but in general, the summer is a period of wretchedness over the whole face of the steppe, and three or four thirst-and-hunger summers frequently succeed each other. The following description of the summer of 1833 was given me by an eyewitness : —
" The last rain fell early in May, and throughout the summer the whole uncommon sight to see some twelve or twenty rolled into one mass, and scouring over the plain like a huge giant in his seven-league boots. Thousands of them are yearly blown into the Black Sea ; but with this salto mortale ends the witch's career, who loses in the water all the fantastic graces that distinguished her while ashore.
As next in importance among the burian of the steppe, the bitter wormwood must not be forgotten. It grows to the height of six feet, and sometimes, in a very dry summer, the cattle will not disdain to eat of it. All the milk and butter then become detestably bitter, and sometimes particles of the dry wormwood adhere to the wheat, in which case the bitter flavour of the plant is certain to be imparted to the bread.
Poisonous herbs are but little known in the European steppes, but in those of Asia there is a great abundance of venomous fungi, which spring up in autumn in such quantities, that at times the plain appears to be covered with them as far as the eye can reach. They are mostly white, and sometimes make the steppe appear in the morning as though there had been a heavy fall of snow during the night. The noon-day heat generally destroys them, but the following night often produces a fresh crop.