onversing thus, the sportsmen approach the forest. The sun has set
and left behind it a red streak like the glow of a fire, scattered
here and there with clouds; there is no catching the colours of
those clouds: their edges are red, but they themselves are one
minute grey, at the next lilac, at the next ashen.

In the forest, among the thick branches of fir-trees and under the
birch bushes, it is dark, and only the outermost twigs on the side
of the sun, with their fat buds and shining bark, stand out clearly
in the air. There is a smell of thawing snow and rotting leaves.
It is still; nothing stirs. From the distance comes the subsiding
caw of the rooks.

"We ought to be standing in Zhivki now," whispers Slyunka, looking
with awe at Ryabov; "there's good stand-shooting there."

Ryabov too looks with awe at Slyunka, with unblinking eyes and open
mouth.

"A lovely time," Slyunka says in a trembling whisper. "The Lord is
sending a fine spring . . . and I should think the snipe are here
by now. . . . Why not? The days are warm now. . . . The cranes were
flying in the morning, lots and lots of them."

Slyunka and Ryabov, splashing cautiously through the melting snow
and sticking in the mud, walk two hundred paces along the edge of
the forest and there halt. Their faces wear a look of alarm and
expectation of something terrible and extraordinary. They stand
like posts, do not speak nor stir, and their hands gradually fall
into an attitude as though they were holding a gun at the cock. . . .

A big shadow creeps from the left and envelops the earth. The dusk
of evening comes on. If one looks to the right, through the bushes
and tree trunks, there can be seen crimson patches of the after-glow.
It is still and damp. . . .

"There's no sound of them," whispers Slyunka, shrugging with the
cold and sniffing with his chilly nose.

But frightened by his own whisper, he holds his finger up at some
one, opens his eyes wide, and purses up his lips. There is a sound
of a light snapping. The sportsmen look at each other significantly,
and tell each other with their eyes that it is nothing. It is the
snapping of a dry twig or a bit of bark. The shadows of evening
keep growing and growing, the patches of crimson gradually grow
dim, and the dampness becomes unpleasant.

The sportsmen remain standing a long time, but they see and hear
nothing. Every instant they expect to see a delicate leaf float
through the air, to hear a hurri