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The place fixed on for the stand-shooting was not far above a

stream in a little aspen copse. On reaching the copse, Levin got

out of the trap and led Oblonsky to a corner of a mossy, swampy

glade, already quite free from snow. He went back himself to a

double birch tree on the other side, and leaning his gun on the

fork of a dead lower branch, he took off his full overcoat,

fastened his belt again, and worked his arms to see if they were

free.

Gray old Laska, who had followed them, sat down warily opposite

him and pricked up her ears. The sun was setting behind a thick

forest, and in the glow of sunset the birch trees, dotted about

in the aspen copse, stood out clearly with their hanging twigs,

and their buds swollen almost to bursting.

From the thickest parts of the copse, where the snow still

remained, came the faint sound of narrow winding threads of water

running away. Tiny birds twittered, and now and then fluttered

from tree to tree.