The bush of wild cherries behind the elm tree was in full bloom and had not yet begun to shed its blossoms, and the nightingales⁠—one quite near at hand and two or three others in the bushes down by the river⁠—burst into full song after some preliminary twitters. From the river came the far-off songs of peasants returning, no doubt, from their work. The sun was setting behind the forest, its last rays glowing through the leaves. All that side was brilliant green, the other side with the elm tree was dark. The cockchafers flew clumsily about, falling to the ground when they collided with anything.