"Why not cut it? Come on, Tit! We'll look sharp! We can eat at

night. Come on!" cried voices, and eating up their bread, the

mowers went back to work.

"Come, lads, keep it up!" said Tit, and ran on ahead almost at a

trot.

"Get along, get along!" said the old man, hurrying after him and

easily overtaking him, "I'll mow you down, look out!"

And young and old mowed away, as though they were racing with one

another. But however fast they worked, they did not spoil the

grass, and the rows were laid just as neatly and exactly. The

little piece left uncut in the corner was mown in five minutes.

The last of the mowers were just ending their rows while the

foremost snatched up their coats onto their shoulders, and

crossed the road towards Mashkin Upland.

The sun was already sinking into the trees when they went with

their jingling dippers into the wooded ravine of Mashkin Upland.

The grass was up to their waists in the middle of the hollow,

soft, tender, and feathery, spotted here and there among the

trees with wild heart's-ease.

After a brief consultation--whether to take the rows lengthwise

or diagonally--Prohor Yermilin, also a renowned mower, a huge,

black-haired peasant, went on ahead. He went up to the top,

turned back again and started mowing, and they all proceeded to

form in line behind him, going downhill through the hollow and

uphill right up to the edge of the forest. The sun sank behind

the forest. The dew was falling by now; the mowers were in the

sun only on the hillside, but below, where a mist was rising, and

on the opposite side, they mowed into the fresh, dewy shade. The

work went rapidly. The grass cut with a juicy sound, and was at

once laid in high, fragrant rows. The mowers from all sides,

brought closer together in the short row, kept urging one another

on to the sound of jingling dippers and clanging scythes, and the

hiss of the whetstones sharpening them, and good-humored shouts.

Levin still kept between the young peasant and the old man. The

old man, who had put on his short sheepskin jacket, was just as

good-humored, jocose, and free in his movements. Among the trees

they were continually cutting with their scythes the so-called

"birch mushrooms," swollen fat in the succulent grass. But the

old man bent down every time he came across a mushroom, picked it

up and put it in his bosom. "Another present for my old woman,"

he said as he did so.




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