from spring-time, all through the summer until september, the male and female were absorbed in the great, beautiful, indispensable task of breeding their young. in september the fledgelings took wing.
the spring and summer developed in their multi-coloured glory: they burned with fiery splendour; the pine-trees glowed with a resinous phosphorescence. there was the fragrance of wormwood. chicory, blue- bells, buttercups, milfoil, and cowslip blossomed and faded; prickly thistles abounded.
in may the nights were deeply blue.
in june they were pale green.
the dawn broke in a blood-red flare like a great conflagration, and at night pale silvery mists moved along the bottom of the ravine, washing the tops of the pines.
at first the nest contained five grey eggs with green speckles. then came the little birds, big-headed, with disproportionately large yellow mouths, their bodies covered with down. they chirruped plaintively, stretching their long necks out from the nest, and they ate voraciously.
they flew in june, though as yet clumsily, piping, and awkwardly fluttering their immature wings.
the female was with them all the time, ruffling her feathers, solicitous and petulant.
the male had no power of thought and hardly any of feeling, but within him was a sense of pride in his own work, which he carried on with joy. his whole life was dominated with an instinct which subjugated his will and his desires to the care of his young.
he hunted for prey.
he had to obtain a great deal, because both his fledglings and his mate were voracious. he had to fly sometimes as far as the river kama, in order to catch seagulls, which hovered over the huge, white, unfamiliar, many-eyed monsters that floated over the water, puffing, and smelling strangely like forest fires—the steamers!
he fed his fledgelings himself, tearing the meat into pieces. and he watched attentively how, with wide open beaks, they seized the little lumps of meat and, rolling their eyes and almost choking in the effort, swallowed them.
sometimes one of the fledgelings awkwardly fell out of the nest and rolled down the steep. then he hastily and anxiously flew after it, bustling and croaking as though he were grumbling; he would take it cautiously and clumsily in his talons and carry it, a frightened flustered atom, back to the nest. there he would smooth its feathers with his great beak for a long time, strutting round it, standing high on his legs, and continuing his anxious croaks.
he dared not sleep at nights.
he perched on the end of a root, vigilantly peering into the darkness, guarding his nestlings and their mother from danger. the stars were above him. at times, as though scenting the fullness and beauty of life, he fiercely and ruefully uttered his croak—scaring the night.
