the dog, the getting up of the snipe, and the shooting. My
father sometimes shot fairly well, though he often lost his head,
and missed frantically.

But our favorite sport was coursing with greyhounds. What a
pleasure it was when the footman Sergei Petrovitch came in and
woke us up before dawn, with a candle in his hand!

We jumped up full of energy and happiness, trembling all
over in the morning cold; threw on our clothes as quickly as we
could, and ran out into the zala, where the samovar was
boiling and papa was waiting for us.

Sometimes mama came in in her dressing-gown, and made us put
on all sorts of extra woolen stockings, and sweaters and gloves.

"What are you going to wear, Lyovotchka?" she would
say to papa. "It's very cold to-day, and there is a wind. Only
the Kuzminsky overcoat again today? You must put on something
underneath, if only for my sake."

Papa would make a face, but give in at last, and buckle on
his short gray overcoat under the other and sally forth. It
would then be growing light. Our horses were brought round, we
got on, and rode first to "the other house," or to the kennels to
get the dogs.

Agafya Mikhailovna would be anxiously waiting
us on the steps. Despite the coldness of the morning, she would
be bareheaded and lightly clad, with her black jacket open,