The storyteller recalls the recent past. He remembers an early fine autumn, the whole golden, dried and thinned garden, the delicate aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples: gardeners pour apples on carts to send them to the city. Late at night, running into the garden and talking with the watchmen guarding the garden, he looks into the dark blue depths of the sky, filled with constellations, looks for a long, long time, until the earth floats underfoot, feeling how good it is to live in the world!

The narrator recalls his Vyselki, which since the time of his grandfather were known in the district as a rich village. Old men and women lived there for a long time - the first sign of well-being. The houses in Vyselki were brick, strong. The average noble life had much in common with a rich peasant. He remembers his aunt Anna Gerasimovna, her estate is small but solid, old, surrounded by hundred-year-old trees. The aunt's garden was famous for its apple trees, nightingales and pebbles, and the house was a roof: its thatched roof was unusually thick and high, blackened and hardened from time to time. First of all, the smell of apples was felt in the house, and then there were other smells: old mahogany furniture, dried lime color.

The storyteller recalls his late brother-in-law Arseniy Semenych, a landowner-hunter, in whose big house many people gathered, everyone had a hearty dinner, and then went hunting. A horn blows in the yard, dogs howl at different voices, the owner’s favorite, a black greyhound, breaks onto the table and devours the remains of a hare in a sauce from a dish. The author recalls himself riding on an evil, strong and squat “Kyrgyz”: trees flicker before his eyes, screams of hunters and dogs barking are heard in the distance. From the ravines it smells like mushroom dampness and wet tree bark. It gets dark, the whole group of hunters tumbles into the estate of some almost unfamiliar bachelor of the hunter, and happens to live with him for several days. After a whole day on the hunt, the warmth of a crowded home is especially pleasant. When it happened to oversleep the next morning, one could spend the whole day in the owner's library, leafing through old magazines and books, looking at notes on their fields. Family portraits are viewed from the walls, an old dreamy life rises before my eyes, my grandmother recalls with sadness ...

But the old people died in Vyselki, Anna Gerasimovna died, Arseny Semenych shot himself. The kingdom of small noble families is coming, impoverished to poverty. But this small-local life is good too! The storyteller happened to visit a neighbor. He gets up early, orders to put a samovar and, putting on his boots, goes to the porch, where he is surrounded by hounds. Nice will be a day for hunting! They don’t hunt hounds with black hounds, eh, if they are greyhounds! But he does not have greyhounds ... However, with the onset of winter, again, as in previous times, small locals come to each other, drink for the last money, and disappear in snowy fields all day long. And in the evening, on some deaf farm, the wings of the wing glow far away in the dark: candles burn there, puffs of smoke float, they play the guitar, they sing ...