ABSTRACT
It was spring at Bulgun Tal. There was much lime in the soil, so the grass had a copious admixture of leguminous plants, vetches, clovers and peas. Last year’s dry grass had been burnt off a wide area round Igagården, and the most succulent herbage was now putting forth there. Yellow and blue pasqueflowers threw a veil of colour over the ground just like our anemones and crocuses at home. The hills looked inviting in their carpet of fine soft grass. The larch buds had just burst, and filmy pale-green clouds lay about the stately stems. The skylark rose before the horses’ hooves and wheeled on fluttering wings towards the blue heavens. His blithe song sounded like a jubilant shout of welcome that made one’s heart light and gay—like his own. And one imagined that a cuckoo was sitting in every one of the tall trees of the forest. In the cool morning and evening hours there was a calling that never ceased, and we quite gave up asking them for counsel, for we could not decide where the cry of one ended and that of another began. And masses of small birds twittered and sang of the spring and the approaching summer, as quickly and eagerly they built their nests and laid plans for the future.
