The Dickinson press., 1883-11-24

-IaHg otECuStkls
oh! had that prayer been frstl
Turgueneff's Last Sketch.
I was about ten years of age when
what ! am about to relate occurred.
1t was summer time. In those days l
lived with my father on a farm in.Soutl,.
ern Russia. Around us, for a distance of
many versts, the steppe extended in ev-
cry direction. No forest, no stream
could be found in the neighboring u
try; only shallow ravines, covered by
brushwood and looking like immense
green snakes, here and there made their
way through the otherwise unbroken
surface of the plains. Tiny rivulets
flowed at the bottom of these ravines;
in places to which well-beaten footpaths
generally led you could see, very near
the top of the bank, small springs Of
limpid water, like tears, issue from the
ground, and on their edges. in the damp
clay, the tracks of numberless birds and
other small animals. Men and beasts,
alike, need fresh, pure water.
My father was pass;onately fond of
hunting. Every moment he could spare
from his work-provided the weather
wa ~fine-would see him take down his
rifle, strap his pouch about his waist.
whistle for his old dog Tresora and start to
hunt quail or partridge. Hare he Thought
little Of; fit only, he would say with
an air OF contempt, to make a hunter
run. These. and snipe were all the
game found in the neighborhood.
But quails aid p%artridges were quite
nnmerous-.especially. the latter. In
following the banks of the ravine, you
would encounter at every step little no.
lows 1ows to On squat 1as ' 61d s! Tseaol w woa1S they they
come to a sudden stop, his tail wapeine
furiously and his forehead gathered in
wrinkles, while my father, pale with ex-
element, would cautiouly raise the
hammer of his gun.
At times, to my great joy, I would be
permitted to accompany him. I used to
tuck the legs of my trousers into the
tops of my boots, hang my little flask
over my shoulders, and, so equipped,
would imagine myself a true sportsman.
Though perspiration might cover me
from head to foot and gravel and dust
enter my shoes, I eve felt the least
fatigued and never in a single instance
allowed myself to drop behind. At
each reportIof the gun and soon as the
bird fell, l bounded forward with a ioy-
ous shout-Ifelt so happy! The wounded
quail might struggle, Zap it's wings.
sometimes on the ground, at other times
in Tresor's mouth, its blood fowl
only became enthusiastic; I never felt
the least sentiment of pity!
What wouldn't l give to be able to
fire II gun myself to kill Quails and pat.
ridges with my own hand! but myfather
had repeatedly explained to me that l
was not to have a gun until l reached
the age Of twelve, and that then I was to
have a single-barreled gun, and that I
would be allowed to shoot larks only.
Large numbers of these were found near
u house; on sunny days you could see
them by the dozens in the clear sky
mounting higher, ever higher, with
chirps resembling the tinkling of silver
bells.
l looked upon them as my future
spoil and aimed at them with a stick
l carried over my shoulder like a gun,
1t is very easy to get close to them,
when they hover with quivering wings
perhaps five or six foot above the ground
before suddenly plunging into the grass.
Sometimes in the distance, on stubble
fields or green prairie, bustards could be
peen. "Ah!" I would sigh, '.to kill a big
bird like that and die!"
1 pointed them out to my father with
my finger, but he would Invariably an
swer that the bustard was a very shy
bird, which would not permit anybody
to get near it. Once however, ho at
tempted to steal upon a solitary bustard,
thinking that it had been wounded: per-
baps, and was tagging behind the rest of
the flock. He ordered Tresor to keep
behind him, and babe me not to stir.
Charging his gun with buckshot he
turned to the dog and exclaimed in a
low voice: "Back, back" Then cover
tiously upon the bustard. Tresor would
not crouch down, but assumed a gait
something like that of a bandy.legged
person, wagging his tail and holding one
of his lips between his teeth. Icouldn't
keep still any longer, and followed my
father and Tresor. crawling carefully all
the way. But the bustard wouldn't al
low us to get within three hundred
yards; it started on a run first, then,
Tapping its wings, flew away. Tresor
made a bound forward and started at it.
/, too, looked at it-with such a disap-
pointed heart! Couldn't it Lave stayed
just q little longer? We should certainly
have killed the bird.
One day I started with my father to
go hunting. It was on the eve of St. Pc
ter's day. At that season of the year
the young patridges are.still very small,
and my father would notshoot any. He,
therefore, entered a patch of oak trees
situated on the edge of a rye field,
where you were always sure to find a
quail. As it was rather difficult to cut
the grass in this piece of wood it had
been allowed to grow freely, and had
attained a great height. Myriads of
flowers, vetch, clover, hare-bell, mousse
ear and sweet william, throve there in
abundance. Whenever, / came to this
spot with my sister or m~aid-servant, l
carried home whole arnlfuls; but whenin
company with my father l did not think
of picking flowers. considered that
occupation unbecoming a sportsman.
Suddenly Tresor came to a stop. My
father made q signal to me to be eau
tious. Right in front of Tressor a hen
quail rose and few off. But she flew in
a strange manner, turning and tumbling
v and vel again in the air, and then
falling to the ground as if she had been
wounded. Tresor made for her fast as
possible-a thing he never did when the
bird few in its usual manner.
NV father conld NOT take her for faa,