ed call like the husky cough of a
child, and the flutter of wings.

"No, not a sound," Slyunka says aloud, dropping his hands and
beginning to blink. "So they have not come yet."

"It's early!"

"You are right there."

The sportsmen cannot see each other's faces, it is getting rapidly
dark.

"We must wait another five days," says Slyunka, as he comes out
from behind a bush with Ryabov. "It's too early!"

They go homewards, and are silent all the way.

THE COSSACK

MAXIM TORTCHAKOV, a farmer in southern Russia, was driving home
from church with his young wife and bringing back an Easter cake
which had just been blessed. The sun had not yet risen, but the
east was all tinged with red and gold and had dissipated the haze
which usually, in the early morning, screens the blue of the sky
from the eyes. It was quiet. . . . The birds were hardly yet awake
. . . . The corncrake uttered its clear note, and far away above a
little tumulus, a sleepy kite floated, heavily flapping its wings,
and no other living creature could be seen all over the steppe.

Tortchakov drove on and thought that there was no better nor happier
holiday than the Feast of Christ's Resurrection. He had only lately
been married, and was now keeping his first Easter with his wife.
Whatever he looked at, whatever he thought about, it all seemed to
him bright, joyous, and happy. He thought about his farming, and
thought that it was all going well, that the furnishing of his house
was all the heart could desire--there was enough of everything
and all of it good; he looked at his wife, and she seemed to him
lovely, kind, and gentle. He was delighted by the glow in the east,
and the young grass, and his squeaking chaise, and the kite. . . .
And when on the way, he ran into a tavern to light his cigarette
and drank a glass, he felt happier still.

"It is said, 'Great is the day,'" he chattered. "Yes, it is great!
Wait a bit, Lizaveta, the sun will begin to dance. It dances every
Easter. So it rejoices too!"

"It is not alive," said his wife.

"But there are people on it!" exclaimed Tortchakov, "there are
really! Ivan Stepanitch told me that there are people on all the
planets--on the sun, and on the moon! Truly . . . but maybe the
learned men tell lies--the devil only knows! Stay, surely that's
not a horse? Yes, it is!"

At the Crooked Ravine, which was just half-way on the journey home,
Tortchakov and his wife saw a saddled horse standing moti