The same boy who for years had watched the passing river bubble away beautifully in the early summer was now sat on a dark rock, with a red arctic char in his hands. It was a festival for a hot summer, although not long ago the blooming landscape had still been covered in sleet. The day announced its special character loudly, like a crow sitting on a young spruce. Never before had he gone deep among the young birch trees to collect a bag full of fresh leaves. They would give a summery green colour to the evening broth.