It is the last day of July; for a thousand miles on every side lies Russia--home. The whole sky is a shadow-less blue; one little cloud floats upon it and melts away. A windless sultry calm; the air like warm milk.
The larks trill, the doves coo, the swallows swift by with their swift and noiseless flight; the horses neigh and crop the grass; the dogs stand about, gently wagging their tails, but not barking.
There is a mingles smell of smoke, hay, tar, and leather.
The hemp is ripe and gives forth its penetrating but pleasant odour.