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"What do you say to my home-brew, eh? Good, eh?" said he,

winking.

And truly Levin had never drunk any liquor so good as this warm

water with green bits floating in it, and a taste of rust from

the tin dipper. And immediately after this came the delicious,

slow saunter, with his hand on the scythe, during which he could

wipe away the streaming sweat, take deep breaths of air, and look

about at the long string of mowers and at what was happening

around in the forest and the country.

The longer Levin mowed, the oftener he felt the moments of

unconsciousness in which it seemed not his hands that swung the

scythe, but the scythe mowing of itself, a body full of life and

consciousness of its own, and as though by magic, without

thinking of it, the work turned out regular and well-finished of

itself. These were the most blissful moments.