Chapter 15

           

           Theplacefixedonforthestand-shootingwasnotfaraboveastreaminalittleaspencopse.Onreachingthecopse,LevingotoutofthetrapandledOblonskytoacornerofamossy,swampyglade,alreadyquitefreefromsnow.Hewentbackhimselftoadoublebirchtreeontheotherside,andleaninghisgunontheforkofadeadlowerbranch,hetookoffhisfullovercoat,fastenedhisbeltagain,andworkedhisarmstoseeiftheywerefree.

           GrayoldLaska,whohadfollowedthem,satdownwarilyoppositehimandprickedupherears.Thesunwassettingbehindathickforest,andintheglowofsunsetthebirchtrees,dottedaboutintheaspencopse,stoodoutclearlywiththeirhangingtwigs,andtheirbudsswollenalmosttobursting.

           Fromthethickestpartsofthecopse,wherethesnowstillremained,camethefaintsoundofnarrowwindingthreadsofwaterrunningaway.Tinybirdstwittered,andnowandthenflutteredfromtreetotree.

           Inthepausesofcompletestillnesstherecametherustleoflastyear’sleaves,stirredbythethawingoftheearthandthegrowthofthegrass.

           “Imagine!Onecanhearandseethegrassgrowing!”Levinsaidtohimself,noticingawet,slate-coloredaspenleafmovingbesideabladeofyounggrass.Hestood,listened,andgazedsometimesdownatthewetmossyground,sometimesatLaskalisteningallalert,sometimesattheseaofbaretreetopsthatstretchedontheslopebelowhim,sometimesatthedarkeningsky,coveredwithwhitestreaksofcloud.

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