“Autumn days. Quiet and sad. Here and there they still stand in the expanse of brown empty fields, like forgotten little rows of rumps of new bread. They turn golden in the evenings in the slanting sun. The country roads are quiet and soft. They smoke gold dust behind a silent cart. The gilded autumn groves are quiet, soft and warm, stern and cold behind them, on the distant hills, the gloomy forests. And so calmly looks at him into the distance, pure, pure, like the eyes of a child. As if cut out of golden paper, the centuries-old birch trees stand and walk freely in large numbers. They walk and doze. Everywhere there is a sensitive peace of fine autumn days, forgotten by the wind. But it will soon swoop down and disturb you, swirl and overwhelm you, and the roadside birches will run into the muddy distance and the groves will weep. We are sitting on a bare hillock behind the village. You can see far from here..."