At last, the glorious spring days came, and the Siberian winter was gone. It did not retreat slowly as it does in the temperate climes, it did not offer a fight: it turned around and ran away, utterly crushed in the course of an afternoon.

Only the day before, a cold north wind blew, the snow lay heavy on the ground, and the ice was thick. But far to the south, in the warm desert, a mighty wind arose and rushed up north and fell like a hurricane upon the country. It came during the night and poured a stream of hot air over the ice and snow. And behold! In the morning, the Tobol shuddered and became dark. Then the ice broke, and from beneath it, water burst in jets. Floating chunks of ice commenced drifting northward, crushing, piling up on one another, crowding in on the shores, diving, and floating up, and announcing their march toward the north with a roar as of hundreds of cannons discharged all at once.

The mighty wind from the desert followed them, annihilating the snow on the steppe, striking the frozen swamp and the bunches of dried-up bushes, warming the hard ground, and hurrying on to the northern ocean.

Every year does the hot wind do this: attack the winter, create the spring, and then, in his turn, after five months, become the victim of the eternal ice of the far north. The following year his brother comes to avenge him and meet his doom in his turn. Thus this world was created so that even disinherited Siberia might have its summer. The Tobol now rushed toward the sea, dragging the ice with it, and the steppe poured into it its melted snows. The river became swollen, widened, and now looked like an ocean without shores. It lapped the feet of the levies and raced past villages throwing its foam over the houses. This lasted only a few days, after which the warm weather checked its speed, and then the river returned to its accustomed bounds to flow on lazily.

Within two days, the steppe turned black; in five, it showed first signs of life; in a week, it was green.

Mrozovetski, who beheld this miracle for the first time, thought of it as of a barbarian invasion. Like an invading horde, Nature knew no obstacle but rushed onward like a thunderbolt, crushing everything in her path, then falling asleep when the impetuous rush was over. As man springs from Nature, so he is like the soil on which he lives.

The warm weather came on at once. The steppe, saturated with moisture, began to tremble and live. Everything grew with wonderful rapidity. It seemed as though the noise of the growing shrubs and the bursting buds could be heard, and the growth of the leaves seen. Immediately the formerly empty places were filled with people. The Kirgiz folded up their yurts and, leaving their winter quarters, rushed away to the south, taking with them their sheep, cattle, and horses.