I remember myself my father's favorite dog in those
days, an Irish setter called Dora. They would bring round the cart, with
a very quiet horse between the shafts, and we would drive out to the
marsh, to Degatna or to Malakhov. My father and sometimes my mother or a
coachman sat on the seat, while I and Dora lay on the floor.

When we got to the marsh, my father used to get out, stand his gun on
the ground, and, holding it with his left hand, load it.

Dora meanwhile fidgeted about, whining impatiently and wagging her thick
tail.

While my father splashed through the marsh, we drove round the bank
somewhat behind him, and eagerly followed the ranging of 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, showing her withered, old bosom. She carried
the dog-collars in her lean, knotted hands.

"Have you gone and fed them again?" asks my father, severely, looking at
the dogs' bulging stomachs.

"Fed them? Not a bit; only just a crust of bread apiece."

"Then what are they licking their chops for?"

"There was a bit of yesterday's oatmeal left over."

"I thought as much! All the hares will get away again. It really is too
bad! Do you do it to spite me?"

"You can't hav