Анна Кареніна

Chapter 2

           

           Itwasthattimeoftheyear,theturning-pointofsummer,whenthecropsofthepresentyearareacertainty,whenonebeginstothinkofthesowingfornextyear,andthemowingisathand;whentheryeisallinear,thoughitsearsarestilllight,notyetfull,anditwavesingray-greenbillowsinthewind;whenthegreenoats,withtuftsofyellowgrassscatteredhereandthereamongit,droopirregularlyoverthelate-sownfields;whentheearlybuckwheatisalreadyoutandhidingtheground;whenthefallowlands,troddenhardasstonebythecattle,arehalfploughedover,withpathsleftuntouchedbytheplough;whenfromthedrydung-heapscartedontothefieldstherecomesatsunsetasmellofmanuremixedwithmeadow-sweet,andonthelow-lyinglandstheriversidemeadowsareathickseaofgrasswaitingforthemowing,withblackenedheapsofthestalksofsorrelamongit.

           Itwasthetimewhentherecomesabriefpauseinthetoilofthefieldsbeforethebeginningofthelaborsofharvesteveryyearrecurring,everyyearstrainingeverynerveofthepeasants.Thecropwasasplendidone,andbright,hotsummerdayshadsetinwithshort,dewynights.

           Thebrothershadtodrivethroughthewoodstoreachthemeadows.SergeyIvanovitchwasallthewhileadmiringthebeautyofthewoods,whichwereatangledmassofleaves,pointingouttohisbrothernowanoldlimetreeonthepointofflowering,darkontheshadyside,andbrightlyspottedwithyellowstipules,nowtheyoungshootsofthisyear’ssaplingsbrilliantwithemerald.

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