A copse with alder-trees, softly whispering, and from time to time shuddering in the fitful breeze, lay, a dark blur, on the right of the kitchen gardens; on the left stretched the immense plain.  In the distance, where the eye could not distinguish between the sky and the plain, there was a bright gleam of light.  A little way off from me sat Savka.  With his legs tucked under him like a Turk and his head hanging, he looked pensively at Kutka.  Our hooks with live bait on them had long been in the river, and we had nothing left to do but to abandon ourselves to repose, which Savka, who was never exhausted and always rested, loved so much.  The glow had not yet quite died away, but the summer night was already enfolding nature in its caressing, soothing embrace.

Everything was sinking into its first deep sleep except some night bird unfamiliar to me, which indolently uttered a long, protracted cry in several distinct notes like the phrase, “Have you seen Ni-ki-ta?” and immediately answered itself, “Seen him, seen him, seen him!”

“Why is it the nightingales aren’t singing tonight?” I asked Savka.

He turned slowly towards me.  His features were large, but his face was open, soft, and expressive as a woman’s.  Then he gazed with his mild, dreamy eyes at the copse, at the willows, slowly pulled a whistle out of his pocket, put it in his mouth and whistled the note of a hen-nightingale.  And at once, as though in answer to his call, a landrail called on the opposite bank.

“There’s a nightingale for you...” laughed Savka.  “Drag-drag! drag-drag! just like pulling at a hook, and yet I bet he thinks he is singing, too.”

“I like that bird,” I said.  “Do you know, when the birds are migrating the landrail does not fly, but runs along the ground?  It only flies over the rivers and the sea, but all the rest it does on foot.”

“Upon my word, the dog...” muttered Savka, looking with respect in the direction of the calling landrail.

Knowing how fond Savka was of listening, I told him all I had learned about the landrail from sportsman’s books.  From the landrail I passed imperceptibly to the migration of the birds.  Savka listened attentively, looking at me without blinking, and smiling all the while with pleasure.

“And which country is most the bird’s home?  Ours or those foreign parts?” he asked.

“Ours, of course.  The bird itself is hatched here, and it hatches out its little ones here in its native country, and they only fly off there to escape being frozen.”

“It’s interesting,” said Savka.  “Whatever one talks about it is always interesting.  Take a bird now, or a man... or take this little stone; there’s something to learn about all of them....  Ah, sir, if I had known you were coming I wouldn’t have told a woman to come here this evening....  She asked to come to-day.”

“Oh, please don’t let me be in your way,” I said.  “I can lie down in the wood....”