" Но сегодня свежее, яркое, блестящее утро, каких...

“But today a fresh, bright, brilliant morning, which is not enough here in the autumn, revived me, and I joyfully met it. So, we have autumn already! How I loved autumn in the village! I was still a child, but I already felt a lot. I loved autumn evening more than morning. I remember, a stone's throw from our house, under the mountain, there was a lake. This lake, - as if I see it now - this lake was as wide, bright, clear as crystal! It happened if the evening was quiet - the lake is calm; on the trees that grew along the shore, it will not move, the water is motionless, like a mirror. Fresh! Cold! Pa dew on the grass, lights will shine on the huts on the shore, the flock will be driven - then I’ll slip quietly out of the house to look at my lake, and I’ll look, it happened. Some kind of bundle of firewood burns near the water itself, and the light far, far down the water it pours, the sky is so cold, blue, and all the edges are streaked with red, fiery streaks, and these streaks become paler and paler; a month comes out; the air is so loud, whether the frightened bird flutters, whether the reeds will ring from a light breeze, or the fish will splash in the water - everything happened to be heard. White vapor rises through the blue water, thin, transparent. The distance is getting dark; everything is somehow drowning in the fog, and near everything is sharply turned around, as if cut off by a cutter - a boat, a coast, an island; some barrel, abandoned, forgotten at the very shore, sways a little on the water, a racite branch with yellow leaves gets tangled up in the reeds - the gull flies up late, then dips in cold water, then flies up again and drowns in the fog. I stared, listened, - it was wonderful to me! And I was still a child, a child! .. I loved autumn so much - late autumn, when they had already taken the bread, they would finish all work, when the gatherings would begin in the huts, when everyone was already waiting for winter. Then everything becomes darker, the sky frowns in clouds, yellow leaves creep along the edges of the exposed forest, and the forest turns blue, turns black - especially in the evening, when the damp fog comes down and the trees flicker out of the fog, like giants, like ugly, scary ghosts. You are late, it used to be for a walk, you lag behind the others, you go alone, you hurry - it's creepy! You tremble like a leaf; now, you think, someone looks scary because of this hollow; meanwhile, the wind will sweep through the forest, buzz, make a noise, howl so pitifully, rip a cloud of leaves from stunted branches, spin them through the air, and after them a long, wide, noisy flock, with a wild piercing cry, the birds will fly so that the sky turns black and everything is covered by them. It will become scary, but here, as if you were hearing someone, someone's voice, as if someone was whispering: "Run, run, child, do not be late; it will be terrible here immediately, run, child!" - horror will pass through the heart, and run, run so that the spirit is engaged. You will run home, out of breath; at home noisy, fun; will give us, all the children, a job: peas or poppy to slice. Raw firewood is cracking in the stove; mother cheerfully watches our cheerful work; old nanny Ulyana talks about the old time or terrible tales about sorcerers and the dead. We, children, press girlfriend to girlfriend, and everyone has a smile on their lips. Then suddenly shut up at once ... chu! noise! as if someone is knocking! Nothing happened; it buzzes the spinning wheel of old Frolovna; how much laughter happened! And then at night we do not sleep with fear; find such terrible dreams. Wake up, used to, do not dare to move and before dawn you flinch under the covers. In the morning you get up as fresh as a flower. You look out the window: frost covered the whole field; a thin, autumn hoarfrost hung on naked branches; thin as a leaf, ice turned the lake; white steam rises on the lake; funny birds shout. The sun shines round with bright rays, and the rays break, like glass, thin ice. Light, bright, fun! Fire again bursts in the stove; we’ll sit down all over to the samovar, and our black dog Polkan, who has been chilled through the night, looks out the windows and affably waves her tail. A peasant will drive past the windows on a peppy horse into the woods for firewood. Everyone is so happy, so happy! .. Oh, what a golden childhood I had! .. "F. M. Dostoevsky" Poor people. "