'And slowly something began to draw him, Back to the country, to the garden dark,
Where lime-trees are so huge, so full of shade,
And lilies of the valley, sweet as maids,
Where rounded o'er the water's edge
Lean from the in rows, and where the oak
Sturdily grows above the sturdy field,
Amid the smell of and rank...
There, there, in meadows stretching wide,
Where rich and black as is the earth,
Where the sweet rye, far as the eye can see,
Moves noiselessly in tender, billowing waves,
And where the heavy golden light is shed
From out of rounded, white, clouds:
There it is good....'
(From a poem, to the flames.)
 
 
The reader is, very likely, already weary of my ; I hasten to him by to confine myself to the fragments already printed; but I cannot refrain from saying a few words at parting about a sportman's life.
 
Hunting with a dog and a gun is in itself, für sich, as they used to say in old days; but let us suppose you were not born a sportsman, but are fond of nature all the same; you cannot then help envying us sportsmen.... Listen.
 
Do you know, for instance, the delight of setting off before daybreak in spring? You come out on to the steps.... In the dark grey sky stars are twinkling here and there; a damp breeze in faint flies to meet you now and then; there is heard the secret, vague whispering of the night; the trees faintly , wrapt in darkness. And now they pull the over the cart, and lay a box with the samovar at your feet. The trace-horses move restlessly, snort, and daintily paw the ground; a couple of white geese, only just awake, slowly and silently across the road. On the other side of the hedge, in the garden, the watchman is snoring peacefully; every sound seems to stand still in the frozen air--suspended, not moving. You take your seat; the horses start at once; the cart rolls off with a loud .... You drive--drive past the church, downhill to the right, across the dyke.... The pond is just beginning to be covered with mist. You are rather ; you cover your face with the collar of your fur cloak; you . The horse's splash through the ; the coachman begins to whistle. But by now you have driven over three miles... the of the sky flushes ; the jackdaws are heard, fluttering clumsily in the birch-trees; sparrows are twittering about the dark hayricks. The air is clearer, the road more distinct, the sky brightens, the clouds look whiter, and the fields look greener. In the huts there is the red light of flaming chips; from behind gates comes the sound of sleepy voices. And meanwhile the glow of dawn is beginning; already of gold are stretching across the sky; mists are in clouds over the ravines; the are singing musically; the breeze that in the dawn is blowing; and slowly the purple sun floats upward. There is a perfect flood of light; your heart is fluttering like a bird. Everything is fresh, gay, delightful! One can see a long way all round. That way, beyond the copse, a village; there, further, another, with a white church, and there a birch-wood on the hill; behind it the , for which you are bound.... Quicker, horses, quicker! Forward at a good !... There are three miles to go--not more. The sun mounts swiftly higher; the sky is clear.... It will be a glorious day. A of cattle comes straggling from the village to meet us. You go up the hill.... What a view! The river winds for ten miles, dimly blue through the mist; beyond it meadows of green; beyond the meadows sloping hills; in the distance the are wheeling with loud cries above the marsh; through the moist in the air the distance stands out clearly... not as in the summer. How freely one drinks in the air, how quickly the limbs move, how strong is the whole man, clasped in the fresh breath of spring!...
 
And a summer morning--a morning in July! Who but the sportsman knows how it is to wander at daybreak among the underwoods? The print of your feet lies in a green line on the grass, white with dew. You part the bushes; you are met by a rush of the warm stored up in the night; the air is with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, the honey sweetness of buckwheat and clover; in the distance an oak wood stands like a wall, and glows and in the sun; it is still fresh, but already the approach of heat is felt. The head is faint and dizzy from the excess of sweet . The copse stretches on endlessly.... Only in places there are yellow glimpses in the distance of rye, and narrow streaks of red buckwheat. Then there is the creak of cart-wheels; a peasant makes his way among the bushes at a walking-pace, and sets his horse in the shade before the heat of the day.... You greet him, and turn away; the musical swish of the is heard behind you. The sun rises higher and higher. The grass is speedily dry. And now it is quite sultry. One hour passes another.... The sky grows dark over the horizon; the still air is baked with piercing heat.... 'Where can one get a drink here, brother?' you inquire of the . 'Yonder, in the ravine's a well.' Through the thick hazel-bushes, by the clinging grass, you drop down to the bottom of the ravine. Right under the cliff a little spring is hidden; an oak bush greedily spreads out its like great fingers over the water; great silvery bubbles rise trembling from the bottom, covered with fine . You fling yourself on the ground, you drink, but you are too lazy to stir. You are in the shade, you drink in the damp fragrance, you take your ease, while the bushes face you, glowing, and, as it were, turning yellow in the sun. But what is that? There is a sudden flying of wind; the air is astir all about you: was not that thunder? Is it the heat thickening? Is a storm coming on?... And now there is a faint flash of lightning.... Ah, this is a storm! The sun is still blazing; you can still go on hunting. But the storm-cloud grows; its front edge, out like a long sleeve, bends over into an arch. The grass, the bushes, everything around grows dark.... Make haste! over there you think you catch sight of a hay barn... make haste!... You run there, go in.... What rain! What flashes of lightning! The water drips in through some hole in the thatch-roof on to the sweet-smelling hay.... But now the sun is shining bright again. The storm is over; you come out. My God, the sparkle of everything! the fresh, air, the of raspberries and mushrooms! And then the evening comes on. There is the blaze of fire glowing and covering half the sky. The sun sets: the air near has a transparency as of crystal; over the distance lies a soft, warm-looking ; with the dew a crimson light is shed on the fields, lately in floods of limpid gold; from trees and bushes and high stacks of hay run long shadows.... The sun has set: a star gleams and quivers in the sea of the sunset... and now it pales; the sky grows blue; the separate shadows vanish; the air is plunged in darkness. It is time to turn homewards to the village, to the hut, where you will stay the night. Shouldering your gun, you move briskly, in spite of .... Meanwhile, the night comes on: now you cannot see twenty paces from you; the dogs show faint............