Hryhoriy sat down under an enormous sessile oak, pulled out his flute and began to play a melody about spring, about the first grasses which had broken through the litter in the sunlit patches and reached toward the sky, about the golden willows and the blue water, which so reminded him of Mariana’s merry eyes. And over the pond, over the forest, over the still cold, indifferent oak tree sailed impressive blinding‑white clouds, driven by a gentle breezy wind...
Sensing someone’s intense gaze, Skovoroda turned and noticed the boy, who was hiding behind a nearby linden.
“Come on here, Vasyl!” he called out to him and played a dance tune. He could play naturally, as if he was reading music, only when he was face‑to‑face with nature.
Vasyl drew closer and stood under the oak tree near where
