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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.