urried
flapping of their wings. And now, outlining big circles, they easily
soar upwards, into the blue depths of the sky; they float higher and
higher, their silver and snow-white feathers flashing. Some of them are
striving to reach the dome of the skies with the light soaring of the
falcon, their wings outstretched wide and almost motionless; others
play, turn over in the air, now dropping downward in a snowy lump, now
darting up like an arrow. Now the entire flock seems as though hanging
motionless in the desert of the sky, and, growing smaller and smaller,
seems to sink in it. With heads thrown back, the boys admire the birds
in silence, without taking their eyes from them--their tired eyes, so
radiant with calm joy, not altogether free from envying these winged
creatures, which so freely took flight from earth up into the pure
and calm atmosphere full of the glitter of the sun. The small group of
scarcely visible dots, now mere specks in the azure of the sky, leads
on the imagination of the children, and Yozhov expresses their common
feeling when, in a low voice, he says thoughtfully:

"That's the way we ought to fly, friends."

While Foma, knowing that human souls, soaring heavenward, oftentimes
assume the form of pigeons, felt in his breast the rising of a burning,
powerful desire.

Unified by their joy, attentively and mutely awaiting the return of
their birds from the depths of the sky, the boys, pressing close to one
another, drifted far away from the breath of life, even as their pigeons
were far from earth; at this moment they are merely children, knowing
neither envy nor anger; free from everything, they are near to one
another, they are mute, judging their feelings by the light in their
eyes--and they feel as happy as the birds in the sky.

But now the pigeons come down on the roof again, and, tired out by their
flight, are easily driven into the pigeon-house.

"Friends, let's go for apples?" suggests Yozhov, the instigator of all
games and adventures.

His call drives out of the children's souls the peacefulness brought
into them by the pigeons, and then, like plunderers, carefully listening
for each and every sound, they steal quietly across the back yards
toward the neighbouring garden. The fear of being caught is balanced by
the hope of stealing with impunity. But stealing is work and dangerous
work at that, and everything that is earned by your own labour is so
sweet! And the more effort requi