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Updated: June 29, 2025
The earth, the forest, the sky, the beasts of all sorts all this has been created, you know, adapted; they all have their intelligence. It is all going to ruin. And most of all I am sorry for people." There was the sound in the wood of heavy rain coming nearer. Meliton looked in the direction of the sound, did up all his buttons, and said: "I am going to the village. Good-bye, grandfather.
The highest, shrillest notes, which quivered and broke, seemed to be weeping disconsolately, as though the pipe were sick and frightened, while the lowest notes for some reason reminded him of the mist, the dejected trees, the grey sky. Such music seemed in keeping with the weather, the old man and his sayings. Meliton wanted to complain.
"There was little game last year, this year there are fewer birds still, and in another five years, mark my words, there will be none at all. As far as I can see there will soon be not only no game, but no birds at all." "Yes," Meliton assented, after a moment's thought. "That's true." The shepherd gave a bitter smile and shook his head. "It's a wonder," he said, "what has become of them all!
As before, he played mechanically and took no more than five or six notes; as though the pipe had come into his hands for the first time, the sounds floated from it uncertainly, with no regularity, not blending into a tune, but to Meliton, brooding on the destruction of the world, there was a sound in it of something very depressing and revolting which he would much rather not have heard.
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