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In front of him, in the bend of the river beyond the marsh, moved

a bright-colored line of peasant women, and the scattered hay was

being rapidly formed into gray winding rows over the pale green

stubble. After the women came the men with pitchforks, and from

the gray rows there were growing up broad, high, soft haycocks.

To the left, carts were rumbling over the meadow that had been

already cleared, and one after another the haycocks vanished,

flung up in huge forkfuls, and in their place there were rising

heavy cartloads of fragrant hay hanging over the horses'

hind-quarters.

"What weather for haying! What hay it'll be!" said an old man,

squatting down beside Levin. "It's tea, not hay! It's like

scattering grain to the ducks, the way they pick it up!" he

added, pointing to the growing haycocks. "Since dinner time

they've carried a good half of it."

"The last load, eh?" he shouted to a young peasant, who drove by,

standing in the front of an empty cart, shaking the cord reins.