Black smoke came in ponderous puffs from the chimneys of the steamers, slowly melting in the fresh air, which was full of bright sunshine.

At times a whistle resounded--it was like the roar of some huge, enraged animal, embittered by toil.

And on the meadows near the rafts, all was calm and silent.

Solitary trees that had been drowned by the flood, were now already covered with light-green spangles of foliage.

Covering their roots and reflecting their tops, the water gave them the appearance of globes, and it seemed as though the slightest breeze would send them floating, fantastically beautiful, down the mirror-like bosom of the river.
The red-haired woman, pensively gazing into the distance, began to sing softly and sadly: "Along the Volga river A little boat is flo-o-oating." The brunette, snapping her large, stern eyes with contempt, said, without looking at her: "We feel gloomy enough without this." "Don't touch her.