The sun was already sinking into the trees when they went with their jingling dippers into the wooded ravine of Mashkin Upland.

The grass was up to their waists in the middle of the hollow, soft, tender, and feathery, spotted here and there among the trees with wild heart's-ease.

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.