The higher the sun mounted, the more birds there were, and the more gayly they sang. The hollow was full of the music of autumn. The ceaseless rustle of the bushes in the wind, and the passionate songs of the birds, could not drown that soft, sweetly melancholy noise. I heard in it the farewell song of summer. It whispered to me words meant for my ears alone, and of their own accord they formed themselves into a song. At the same time my memory unconsciously recalled to my mind pictures of the past. From somewhere above grandmother cried: "Where are you?" She sat on the edge of the pathway. She had spread out a handkerchief on which she had laid bread, cucumber, turnips, and apples. In the midst of this display a small, very beautiful cut-glass decanter stood. It had a crystal stopper, the head of Napoleon, and in the goblet was a measure of vodka, distilled from herbs. "How good it is, O Lord!" said grandmother, gratefully. "I have composed a song." "Yes? Well?" I repeated to her something which I thought was like poetry. "That winter draws near the signs are many; Farewell to thee, my summer sun!" But she interrupted without hearing me out. "I know a song like that, only it is a better one." And she repeated in a singsong voice: "_Oi_, the summer sun has gone To dark nights behind the distant woods! _Ekh!_ I am left behind, a maiden, Alone, without the joys of spring. Every morn I wander round; I trace the walks I took in May. The bare fields unhappy look; There it was I lost my youth. _Oi,_ my friends, my kind friends, Take my heart from my white breast, Bury my heart in the snow!" My conceit as an author suffered not a little, but I was delighted with this song, and very sorry for the girl. Grandmother said: "That is how grief sings. That was made up by a young girl, you know. She went out walking all the springtime, and before the winter her dear love had thrown her over, perhaps for another girl. She wept because her heart was sore. You cannot speak well and truly on what you have not experienced for yourself. You see what a good song she made up." When she sold a bird for the first time, for forty copecks, she was very surprised. "Just look at that! I thought it was all nonsense, just a boy's amusement; and it has turned out like this!" "You sold it too cheaply." "Yes; well?" On market-days she sold them for a ruble, and was more surprised than ever. What a lot one might earn by just playing about! "And a woman spends whole days washing clothes or cleaning floors for a quarter of a ruble, and here you just catch them! But it is n't a nice thing to do, you know, to keep birds in a cage. Give it up, Olesha!"