Such days are sometimes hot. Control dictations for the second half of the year

About two hours later we were all sitting, dried as much as possible, in a large hay barn and getting ready to have dinner. The coachman Yehudiel, an extremely slow man, slow to move, thoughtful and sleepy, stood at the gate and diligently treated Sochochka with tobacco. (I noticed that coachmen in Russia very quickly become friends.) The twig sniffed furiously, to the point of nausea: he spat, coughed and, apparently, felt great pleasure. Vladimir assumed a languid look, tilted his head to the side and spoke little. Yermolai wiped our guns. The dogs swung their tails with exaggerated speed in anticipation of the oatmeal; the horses stamped and neighed under the canopy... The sun was setting; its last rays scattered in wide crimson stripes; golden clouds spread across the sky smaller and smaller, like a washed, combed wave... Songs were heard in the village.

Bezhin meadow

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull crimson, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - floats up peacefully under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and plunges into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver... But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; unless here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and the vortex-gyres - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

On just such a day I was once hunting for black grouse in Chernsky district, Tula province. I found and shot quite a lot of game; the filled bag mercilessly cut my shoulder; but the evening dawn was already fading, and in the air, still bright, although no longer illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, cold shadows began to thicken and spread when I finally decided to return to my home. With quick steps I walked through a long “square” of bushes, climbed a hill and, instead of the expected familiar plain with an oak forest to the right and a low white church in the distance, I saw completely different places unknown to me. At my feet stretched a narrow valley; directly opposite, a dense aspen tree rose like a steep wall. I stopped in bewilderment, looked around... “Hey! “- I thought, “Yes, I ended up in the wrong place at all: I took it too far to the right,” and, marveling at my mistake, I quickly went down the hill. I was immediately overcome by an unpleasant, motionless dampness, as if I had entered a cellar; the thick tall grass at the bottom of the valley, all wet, turned white like an even tablecloth; it was somehow creepy to walk on it. I quickly climbed out to the other side and walked, turning to the left, along the aspen tree. The bats were already hovering over its sleeping tops, mysteriously circling and trembling in the vaguely clear sky; A belated hawk flew briskly and straight overhead, hurrying to its nest. “As soon as I get to that corner,” I thought to myself, “there will be a road right here, but I gave a detour a mile away!”

I finally reached the corner of the forest, but there was no road there: some unmown, low bushes spread wide in front of me, and behind them, far, far away, a deserted field could be seen. I stopped again. “What kind of parable?.. But where am I?” I began to remember how and where I went during the day... “Eh! Yes, these are Parakhin bushes! – I finally exclaimed, “exactly!” this must be the Sindeevskaya Grove... How did I come here? So far?.. Strange”! Now we need to take the right again."

I went to the right, through the bushes. Meanwhile, the night was approaching and growing like a thundercloud; It seemed that, along with the evening vapors, darkness was rising from everywhere and even pouring from above. I came across some kind of unmarked, overgrown path; I walked along it, carefully looking ahead. Everything around quickly turned black and fell silent - only the quails squawked occasionally. A small night bird, silently and low rushing on its soft wings, almost stumbled upon me and timidly dived to the side. I went out to the edge of the bushes and wandered across the field. I was already having difficulty distinguishing distant objects; the field was vaguely white around; behind him, approaching with every moment, gloomy darkness rose in huge clouds. My steps echoed dully in the frozen air. The pale sky began to turn blue again - but it was already the blue of night. The stars flickered and moved on it.

Reasoning about the text is primarily related to the determination of its properties such as articulation and coherence. Let us turn to the analysis of these properties in a specific text.

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; the morning dawn does not burn with fire; she bursts into a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull purple, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - floats up peacefully under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and plunges into its purple fog. The upper edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver... But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; unless here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwind vortices - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain... (I.S. Turgenev “Bezhin Meadow”)

At the first stage of analysis, it is necessary to determine the topic of the text, highlight the semantic parts - complex syntactic wholes (sentences connected by a single micro-theme).

This fragment represents a relatively complete unity in semantic, grammatical, and intonation terms. The text is presented in the form of 1 paragraph, including 4 semantic parts. The first sentence sets the theme of the entire text (“A beautiful July day”), which develops in the following parts.

The first semantic part (SSTS I - 2-5 sentences) reveals the micro-theme “Morning”. The microtheme of the second semantic part (SSTS II - 6-8 sentences) is “Noon”. The third semantic part is 1 difficult sentence and reveals the micro-theme “Evening”. The fourth part (SSTS III - 10-13 sentences) describes the general condition environment on such July days.

The last semantic part is a generalization of all the signs of “constant weather” and includes a description of the colors of the day, temperature and smells, reflecting different aspects of human perception of nature. This description brings us back to the theme of the text set in the first sentence (“ring composition”).

Let's highlight the key words of the text that reveal its topic. Let's consider the means of connecting sentences in the text (lexical, figurative, grammatical). The coherence of the text can be achieved through lexical, thematic and synonymous repetition, pronominal replacement, at the grammatical level - repetition of conjunctions, the ratio of types of tense forms of the verb, use participial phrases, syntactic parallelism, sentence incompleteness, etc.

A figurative connection involves identifying figurative, metaphorical and cultural associations. It is possible to establish a connection at the phonetic level (sound repetitions) and word formation (repetition of morphemes). Let us demonstrate the possibilities of such analysis using the example of this fragment of text.

Golovkina S.Kh., Smolnikov S.N.
Linguistic text analysis - Vologda, 2006.

By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On such days the colors are softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwind vortices - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

(I. Turgenev)
(132 words)

Grammar task

1. Parse phrases

Option I: a) lie down opposite the sun; b) over the darkened earth;

Option II: a) on days like these; b) seal of meekness.

2. Execute parsing proposals

Option I: The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp.

Option II: On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness.

9th grade

(I. Turgenev)
(188 words)

Grammar task

1. Explain the placement of punctuation marks in sentences

Option I: The sky is clear from early morning; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush.

Option II : But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off.

2. Parse

Option I: It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time.

Option II: Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges.

YES. KHAUSTOVA,
Moscow

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull purple, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - floats up peacefully under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and sinks into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver... But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose merrily and majestic, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; unless here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwind vortices - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

On just such a day I was once hunting for black grouse in Chernsky district, Tula province. I found and shot quite a lot of game; the filled bag mercilessly cut my shoulder; but the evening dawn was already fading, and in the air, still bright, although no longer illuminated by the rays of the setting sun, cold shadows began to thicken and spread when I finally decided to return to my home. With quick steps I walked through a long “square” of bushes, climbed a hill and, instead of the expected familiar plain with an oak forest to the right and a low white church in the distance, I saw completely different places unknown to me. At my feet stretched a narrow valley; directly opposite, a dense aspen tree rose like a steep wall. I stopped in bewilderment, looked around... “Hey! - I thought, “Yes, I ended up in the wrong place at all: I took it too far to the right,” and, marveling at my mistake, I quickly went down the hill. I was immediately overcome by an unpleasant, motionless dampness, as if I had entered a cellar; the thick tall grass at the bottom of the valley, all wet, turned white like an even tablecloth; it was somehow creepy to walk on it. I quickly climbed out to the other side and walked, turning to the left, along the aspen tree. Bats were already flying over its sleeping tops, mysteriously circling and trembling in the vaguely clear sky; A belated hawk flew briskly and straight overhead, hurrying to its nest. “As soon as I get to that corner,” I thought to myself, “there will be a road right here, but I gave a detour a mile away!”

I finally reached the corner of the forest, but there was no road there: some unmown, low bushes spread wide in front of me, and behind them, far, far away, a deserted field could be seen. I stopped again. “What kind of parable?.. But where am I?” I began to remember how and where I went during the day... “Eh! Yes, these are Parakhin bushes! - I finally exclaimed, “exactly!” this must be the Sindeevskaya Grove... How did I come here? So far?.. Strange”! Now we need to take the right again.”

What I had taken for a grove turned out to be a dark and round mound. “Where am I?” - I repeated again out loud, stopped for the third time and looked questioningly at my English yellow-piebald dog Dianka, decidedly the smartest of all four-legged creatures. But the smartest of the four-legged creatures only wagged her tail, blinked her tired eyes sadly and did not give me any good advice. I felt ashamed of her, and I desperately rushed forward, as if I had suddenly guessed where I should go, rounded the hillock and found myself in a shallow, plowed-out ravine all around. A strange feeling immediately took possession of me. This hollow had the appearance of an almost regular cauldron with gentle sides; at the bottom of it several large, white stones stood upright - it seemed that they had crawled there for a secret meeting - and it was so mute and dull in it, the sky hung so flat, so sadly above it that my heart sank. Some animal squeaked weakly and pitifully between the stones. I hurried to get back onto the hill. Until now I still had not lost hope of finding my way home; but then I was finally convinced that I was completely lost, and, no longer trying at all to recognize the surrounding places, which were almost completely drowned in darkness, I walked straight ahead, following the stars - at random... I walked like this for about half an hour, with difficulty moving my legs. It seemed like I had never been in such empty places in my life: no lights flickered anywhere, no sound was heard. One gentle hill gave way to another, fields stretched endlessly after fields, bushes seemed to suddenly rise out of the ground right in front of my nose. I kept walking and was about to lie down somewhere until the morning, when suddenly I found myself over a terrible abyss.

Ushinsky Konstantin Dmitrievich.
8. Ushinsky Konstantin Dmitrievich.
9. Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky
10. Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich
11. Tolstoy Lev Nikolaevich
12. Mamin-Sibiryak Dmitry Narkisovich

Excerpts from the story “Forest and Steppe”

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

And a summer, July morning! Who, besides the hunter, has experienced how pleasant it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? The trace of your feet lies like a green line across the dewy, whitened grass. If you part the wet bush, you will be bombarded with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the whole air is filled with the fresh bitterness of wormwood, buckwheat honey and “porridge”; In the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and shines and turns red and the sun; It’s still fresh, but you can already feel the heat coming. The head is languidly spinning from the excess of fragrances. There is no end to the bush... Here and there, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, and buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. …. The sun is getting higher and higher. The grass dries quickly. It's already getting hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; The still air suffuses with a prickly heat.

***
Through dense hazel bushes, tangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Exactly: right under the cliff there is a source; the oak bush greedily spread its clawed branches over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe the odorous dampness; you feel good, but opposite you the bushes heat up and seem to turn yellow in the sun.

***
But what is it? The wind suddenly came and rushed by; the air trembled all around: was it thunder? You are coming out of the ravine... what is that lead stripe in the sky? Is the heat getting thicker? Is a cloud approaching?.. But lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it’s a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud grows: its front edge stretches out like a sleeve, tilts like an arch. The grass, the bushes, everything suddenly went dark... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see the hay barn... quickly!.. You ran, entered... How is the rain? what are lightning? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay... But then the sun began to shine again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles around, how fresh and liquid the air is, how it smells of strawberries and mushrooms!..

***
But then evening comes. The dawn burst into flames and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; soft steam lies in the distance, warm in appearance; along with the dew, a scarlet shine falls onto the clearings, recently doused with streams of liquid gold; Long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the tall haystacks... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of sunset... Now it is turning pale; the sky turns blue; individual shadows disappear, the air fills with darkness. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing the gun over your shoulders, you walk quickly, despite your fatigue... Meanwhile, night comes; twenty steps away it’s no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky becomes vaguely clear... What is this? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising.

***
...Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; the long, hanging branches of the birches barely move; a mighty oak tree stands like a fighter next to a beautiful linden tree. You are driving along a green path dotted with shadows; large yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, lighter in the shade, darker in the sun; the birds howl peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds with innocent, chatty joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest becomes deaf... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and everything around is so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown leaves; The mushrooms stand separately under their caps.

***
Summer foggy days are also good... On such days... a bird, fluttering out from under your feet, immediately disappears into the whitish darkness of a motionless fog. But how quiet, how inexpressibly quiet everything is around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it luxuriates. Through the thin steam, evenly spread in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You take it for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of wormwood at the boundary. Above you, all around you, there is fog everywhere... But then the wind moves slightly - a piece of pale blue sky will vaguely emerge through the thinning, as if smoky steam, a golden-yellow ray will suddenly burst in, flow in a long stream, hit the fields, rest against the grove - and behold everything became clouded again. This struggle continues for a long time; but how unspeakably magnificent and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread like tablecloths, or soar and disappear into the deep, gently shining heights...

Excerpts from the story “Bezhin Meadow”. From the series “Notes of a Hunter”

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happen when the weather has settled for a long time. From early morning the sky is clear; The morning dawn does not burn with fire: it spreads with a gentle blush. The sun - not fiery, not hot, as during a sultry drought, not dull crimson, as before a storm, but bright and welcomingly radiant - floats up peacefully under a narrow and long cloud, shines freshly and sinks into its purple fog. The upper, thin edge of the stretched cloud will sparkle with snakes; their shine is like the shine of forged silver... But then the playing rays poured out again, and the mighty luminary rose merrily and majestic, as if taking off. Around noon there usually appear many round high clouds, golden-gray, with delicate white edges. Like islands scattered along an endlessly overflowing river, flowing around them with deeply transparent branches of even blue, they hardly move from their place; further, towards the horizon, they move, crowd together, the blue between them is no longer visible; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all thoroughly imbued with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change throughout the day and is the same all around; It doesn’t get dark anywhere, the thunderstorm doesn’t thicken; unless here and there bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then barely noticeable rain is falling. By evening these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and vague, like smoke, lie in pink clouds opposite the setting sun; at the place where it set as calmly as it calmly rose into the sky, a scarlet glow stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star glows on it. On days like these, the colors are all softened; light, but not bright; everything bears the stamp of some touching meekness. On such days, the heat is sometimes very strong, sometimes even “soaring” along the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes apart the accumulated heat, and whirlwind vortices - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk in tall white columns along the roads through the arable land. The dry and clean air smells of wormwood, compressed rye, and buckwheat; even an hour before night you do not feel damp. The farmer wishes for similar weather for harvesting grain...

***
The moon has finally risen; I leaned towards the dark edge of the earth; many stars did not immediately notice: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night, it seemed, was still as magnificent as before... But already, until recently, they stood high in the sky; everything around was completely silent, as everything usually only calms down in the morning: everything was sleeping in a deep, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. There was no longer a strong smell in the air; dampness seemed to be spreading in it again... The summer nights were short-lived!..
... the morning began. The dawn had not yet blushed anywhere, but it was already turning white in the east. Everything became visible, although dimly visible, all around. The pale gray sky became lighter, colder, and bluer; the stars blinked with faint light and then disappeared; the earth became damp, the leaves began to sweat, in some places living sounds and voices began to be heard, and the liquid, early breeze had already begun to wander and flutter over the earth.....
... have already poured around me across a wide wet meadow, and in front, along the green hills, from forest to forest, and behind along a long dusty road, along sparkling, stained bushes, and along the river, bashfully blue from under the thinning fog - they poured first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light... Everything moved, woke up, sang, rustled, spoke. Everywhere large drops of dew began to glow like radiant diamonds; the sounds of a bell came towards me, clean and clear, as if also washed by the morning cool, and suddenly a rested herd rushed past me, driven by familiar boys...

Excerpts from the story “Kasyan with the Beautiful Sword.” From the series “Notes of a Hunter”

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. High and sparse clouds barely rushed across the clear sky, yellow-white, like late spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, these clouds, and no shadow fell from them. ..
The young shoots, which had not yet managed to stretch above an arshin, surrounded the blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round, spongy growths with gray edges, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; strawberries sprouted their pink tendrils over them; the mushrooms were sitting closely together in families. My legs were constantly getting tangled and clinging in the long grass, saturated with the hot sun; everywhere the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees dazzled the eyes; everywhere were blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half purple, half yellow flowers of Ivan da Marya; here and there, near abandoned paths, on which wheel tracks were marked by stripes of small red grass, there were piles of firewood, darkened by wind and rain, stacked in fathoms; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles - there was no other shadow anywhere. A light breeze would wake up and then die down: it would suddenly blow right in your face and seem to play out - everything would make a cheerful noise, nod and move around, the flexible ends of the ferns would sway gracefully - you would be glad to see it... but now it froze again, and everything became quiet again. Some grasshoppers chatter together, as if embittered, and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiresome. He walks towards the relentless heat of midday; it’s as if he was born by him, as if he was summoned from the hot earth.

***
The heat forced us to finally enter the grove. I threw myself under a tall hazel bush, over which a young, slender maple beautifully spread its light branches... The leaves swayed faintly in the heights, and their liquid-greenish shadows quietly slid back and forth over his frail body, somehow wrapped in a dark overcoat, over his small face. He didn't raise his head. Bored with his silence, I lay down on my back and began to admire the peaceful play of tangled leaves in the distant bright sky. It's a surprisingly pleasant experience to lie on your back in the forest and look up! It seems to you that you are looking into a bottomless sea, that it spreads widely beneath you, that the trees do not rise from the ground, but, like the roots of huge plants, descend, falling vertically into those glassy clear waves; the leaves on the trees alternately show emeralds and then thicken into golden, almost black green. Somewhere far, far away, ending in a thin branch, a single leaf stands motionless on a blue patch of transparent sky, and another one sways next to it, its movement reminiscent of the play of a fish reach, as if the movement is unauthorized and not caused by the wind. Like magical underwater islands, white round clouds quietly float and quietly pass, and suddenly this whole sea, this radiant air, these branches and leaves bathed in the sun - everything will flow, tremble with a fugitive shine, and a fresh, trembling babble will rise, similar to an endless small the splash of a sudden swell. You don’t move - you look: and you can’t express in words how joyful, and quiet, and sweet it becomes in your heart. You look: that deep, pure azure awakens a smile on your lips, as innocent as itself, like clouds in the sky, and as if along with them happy memories pass through your soul in a slow line, and it still seems to you that your gaze goes further and further further and pulls you along with you into that calm, shining abyss, and it is impossible to tear yourself away from this height, from this depth...

Excerpts from the novel “Rudin”

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

It was a quiet summer morning. The sun was already quite high in the clear sky; but the fields still glistened with dew, fragrant freshness wafted from the recently awakened valleys, and in the forest, still damp and not noisy, the early birds sang merrily...

... All around, through the tall, unsteady rye, shimmering with silver-green, then reddish ripples, long waves ran with a soft rustle; the larks were ringing overhead.

***
The day was hot, bright, radiant, despite the occasional rain. Low, smoky clouds rushed smoothly across the clear sky, without blocking the sun, and from time to time dropped heavy streams of sudden and instant rain onto the fields. Large, sparkling drops fell quickly, with a kind of dry noise, like diamonds; the sun played through their flickering mesh; the grass, recently agitated by the wind, did not move, greedily absorbing moisture; the irrigated trees trembled languidly with all their leaves; the birds did not stop singing, and it was gratifying to listen to their chatty chirping along with the fresh hum and murmur of the running rain. The dusty roads smoked and were slightly mottled under the sharp blows of frequent splashes. But then a cloud flew by, a breeze fluttered, the grass began to shimmer with emerald and gold... Sticking to each other, the leaves of the trees showed through... A strong smell rose from everywhere...

***
In the distant and pale depths of the sky, stars were just appearing; in the west it was still red - there the sky seemed clearer and cleaner; the semicircle of the moon glittered gold through the black mesh of the weeping birch. Other trees either stood as gloomy giants, with a thousand gaps, like eyes, or merged into solid gloomy masses. Not a single leaf moved; the upper branches of lilacs and acacias seemed to be listening to something and stretched out in the warm air. The house grew dark nearby; The illuminated long windows were painted on it with spots of reddish light. The evening was gentle and quiet; but a restrained, passionate sigh was felt in this silence.