“In the morning there was white ice on the puddles, and now, in the afternoon, streams are running, dogs are basking in the sun and sparrows are briskly splashing around. The wind is “overburden”, tight, dampish-warm. It will pull, sometimes jerk: the brisk spring wind. If you listen, it makes noise and laughs! And the sky is in the wind: thick blue behind the golden twigs of the poplars. Warmth and freshness. And in this freshness - trickles: from the melting snow, from the warmed earth and roofs, from the twigs beating in the wind, which have grown limp and shining from the wind, from the wind sweeping through the fields and forests?.. And it seems to smell like doves... their languid cooing - is felt by a young heart - and the warm dampness of the cellars, late in filling, with softened ice, green-blue blocks collapsing with a roar into the dark mouths of the shops. Spring... She looks into the eyes of the flushed “larks” and white caps of pasochas in paper roses, nods from the cart with a cheerful willow - reddish twigs and gray willows, golden crosses in the sky, shouts in the voices of peddlers...”