It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happens 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 - peacefully rises 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 brilliance is like the brilliance of forged silver... But here again the playful rays gushed, - and cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off, the mighty luminary rises. 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 sleeves of even blue, they hardly budge; further, towards the sky, they shift, crowd, the blue between them can no longer be seen; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all permeated through and through with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change all day and is the same all around; nowhere does it get dark, the thunderstorm does not thicken; except in some places bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then a barely noticeable rain is sown. By evening, these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and indefinite as smoke, fall in rosy puffs against the setting sun; in the place where it set as calmly as it calmly ascended into the sky, a scarlet radiance stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star will light up on it. On such days 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" over the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes the accumulated heat, and whirlwinds - cycles - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk like high white pillars along the roads through the arable land. In dry and clean air it smells of wormwood, compressed rye, buckwheat; even an hour before night you don't feel damp. The farmer wants such weather for harvesting grain ...
On such a precise day I once hunted black grouse in the Chernsky district, Tula province. I found and shot quite a lot of game; the filled game bag mercilessly cut my shoulder; but already the evening dawn was 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 passed a long "area" 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 forest rose like a steep wall. I stopped in bewilderment, looked around ... "Hey! - I thought, - yes, I didn’t get there at all: I went too far to the right," - and, marveling at my mistake, I quickly went down the hill. An unpleasant, motionless dampness immediately seized me, as if I had entered a cellar; thick tall grass at the bottom of the valley, all wet, white as an even tablecloth; It was kind of scary to walk on it. I quickly climbed out to the other side and went, taking to the left, along the aspen forest. Bats were already hovering over its dormant tops, mysteriously circling and trembling in a vaguely clear sky; a belated hawk flew briskly and straight up in the air, hurrying to its nest. “As soon as I reach that corner,” I thought to myself, “there will now be a road, but I gave a hook a mile away!

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happens 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 - peacefully rises 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 brilliance is like the brilliance of forged silver... But here again the playful rays gushed, - and cheerfully and majestically, as if taking off, the mighty luminary rises. 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 sleeves of even blue, they hardly budge; further, towards the sky, they shift, crowd, the blue between them can no longer be seen; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all permeated through and through with light and warmth. The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change all day and is the same all around; nowhere does it get dark, the thunderstorm does not thicken; except in some places bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then a barely noticeable rain is sown. By evening, these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and indefinite as smoke, fall in rosy puffs against the setting sun; in the place where it set as calmly as it calmly ascended into the sky, a scarlet radiance stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star will light up on it. On such days 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" over the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes the accumulated heat, and whirlwinds - cycles - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk like high white pillars along the roads through the arable land. In dry and clean air it smells of wormwood, compressed rye, buckwheat; even an hour before night you don't feel damp. The farmer wants such weather for harvesting grain ...
On such a precise day I once hunted black grouse in the Chernsky district, Tula province. I found and shot quite a lot of game; the filled game bag mercilessly cut my shoulder; but already the evening dawn was 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 passed a long "area" 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 forest rose like a steep wall. I stopped in bewilderment, looked around ... "Hey! - I thought, - yes, I didn’t get there at all: I went too far to the right," - and, marveling at my mistake, I quickly went down the hill. An unpleasant, motionless dampness immediately seized me, as if I had entered a cellar; thick tall grass at the bottom of the valley, all wet, white as an even tablecloth; It was kind of scary to walk on it. I quickly climbed out to the other side and went, taking to the left, along the aspen forest. Bats were already hovering over its dormant tops, mysteriously circling and trembling in a vaguely clear sky; a belated hawk flew briskly and straight up in the air, hurrying to its nest. “As soon as I get to that corner,” I thought to myself, “there will be a road right now, but I gave a hook a mile away!”

The story of Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev "Bezhin Meadow" is one of the most beautiful stories about nature. describes the meadow through the eyes of a hunter - a man in love with his land, with his native nature.
The hunter approached the boys who were tending the horses. He does not want to disturb them, so he admires the night meadow. As he says, the picture that opened up to his eyes was wonderful: “Near the lights, a round reddish reflection trembled and seemed to freeze, resting against the darkness; the flame, flashing, occasionally threw quick reflections beyond the line of that circle; a thin tongue of light licks the bare branches of the vine and vanishes at once; sharp, long shadows, bursting in for a moment, in turn reached the very lights: darkness fought with light. From a lighted place it is difficult to see what is going on in the dark, and therefore everything seemed to be covered with an almost black veil up close; but farther to the sky, hills and forests were dimly visible in long spots. The dark clear sky stood solemnly and immensely high above us with all its mysterious splendor. His chest was sweetly embarrassed, inhaling that special, lingering and fresh smell - the smell of a Russian summer night. Almost no noise was heard around ... Only occasionally in a nearby river with a sudden sonority would a big fish splash and the coastal reeds would faintly rustle, barely shaken by the oncoming wave ... Some lights crackled softly.
This night landscape inspires harmony, calmness, some kind of quiet joy in the hero and the reader. Turgenev paints this landscape for us so skillfully that we not only see it, but also feel the same as the boys gathered around the fire.
Nature is given a lot of space in the story. Turgenev not only shows us the beauty of Russian nature, but also expresses philosophical thoughts. Looking at the night sky, the hunter thinks about the passage of time, about space and other things: “The moon was not in the sky: at that time it rose late. Countless golden stars seemed to be quietly flowing, vying with each other, flickering, in the direction of the Milky Way, and, right, looking at them, you seemed to vaguely feel the impetuous, unstoppable run of the earth ... "
Such a philosophical mood does not go away with the hero even at dawn, on the contrary, he feels the beginning of a new day and a new life. Nature, as it were, tells him that everything is changing for the better, that after the darkness dawn always comes, that the world around is beautiful and this should be rejoiced.
At the end of the story, Turgenev gives a delightful picture of dawn, which infects with optimism and cheerfulness: “... first scarlet, then red, golden streams of young, hot light poured ... Everything stirred, woke up, sang, rustled, started talking. Large drops of dew blushed everywhere like radiant diamonds; towards me, clean and clear, as if also washed by the morning coolness, the sounds of a bell came, and suddenly a rested herd rushed past me, driven by familiar boys.

Vasily Shukshin The sun, the old man and the girl Days burned with white fire. The ground was hot, the trees were hot too. The dry grass rustled underfoot. It only got cold in the evenings. And then an ancient old man came out on the banks of the swift Katun River, always sat down in one place - by the snag - and looked at the sun. The sun was setting behind the mountains. In the evening it was huge, red. The old man sat motionless. His hands lay in his lap, brown, dry, and terribly wrinkled. The face is also wrinkled, the eyes are moist and dull. The neck is thin, the head is small, gray-haired. Sharp shoulder blades stick out under a blue cotton shirt. Once the old man, when he was sitting like this, heard a voice behind him: - Hello, grandfather! The old man nodded his head. A girl sat next to him with a flat suitcase in her hands. - Resting? The old man nodded his head again. Said; - Resting. Didn't look at the girl. - May I write to you? the girl asked. - Like this? the old man did not understand. - Draw you. The old man was silent for a while, looking at the sun, blinking his reddish eyelids without eyelashes. “I’m ugly now,” he said. - Why? - The girl was somewhat confused. - No, you are handsome, grandfather. - Also sick. The girl looked at the old man for a long time. Then she stroked his dry, brown hand with a soft palm and said: - You are very handsome, grandfather. Truth. The old man chuckled weakly: - Draw, since such a thing. The girl opened her suitcase. The old man coughed into his palm: - Urban, perhaps? - he asked. - Urban. - They pay, you see, for this? - When, as a matter of fact, I'll do it well, they'll pay. - We must try. - I am doing my best. They fell silent. The old man kept looking at the sun. The girl drew, peering into the face of the old man from the side. Are you from here, grandpa? - Local. - And you were born here? - Here, here. - How old are you now? - Godkov something? Eighty. - Wow! “A lot,” the old man agreed, and again grinned weakly. “And you?” - Twenty five. They were silent again. - What a sun! the old man exclaimed softly. - Which? – not understood girl. - Big. – Ah… Yes. It's actually beautiful here. - And the water is out there, you see, what ... At the other side ... - Yes, yes. - Added a lot of blood. - Yes. - The girl looked at the other side. - Yes. The sun touched the peaks of Altai and began to slowly sink into the distant blue world. And the deeper it went, the more clearly the mountains were drawn. They seemed to move forward. And in the valley - between the river and the mountains - the reddish dusk was quietly fading away. And a thoughtful soft shadow was approaching from the mountains. Then the sun completely disappeared behind the sharp ridge of Buburkhan, and immediately from there a swift fan of bright red rays flew out into the greenish sky. It did not last long - it also faded quietly. And in the sky in that direction the dawn began to blaze. “The sun is gone,” the old man sighed. The girl put the sheets in a drawer. For some time they sat just like that - listening to the little hurried waves murmuring near the shore. Fog crept into the valley in large patches. In the forest nearby, some night bird timidly cried out. They loudly responded to her from the shore, from the other side. "Good," the old man said softly. And the girl was thinking about how she would soon return to a distant sweet city, bring a lot of drawings. There will be a portrait of this old man. And her friend, a talented, real artist, will certainly be angry: “Wrinkles again! .. And for what? Everyone knows that Siberia has a harsh climate and people work hard there. What's next? What? ..” The girl knew that she was not God knows how gifted. But she thinks about what a difficult life this old man lived. Look at his hands ... Again wrinkles! “We have to work, work, work…” – Will you come here tomorrow, grandfather? she asked the old man. "I'll come," he replied. The girl got up and went to the village. The old man sat a little longer and also went. He came home, sat in his corner, near the stove, and sat quietly - waiting for his son to come home from work and sit down to dinner. The son always came tired, dissatisfied with everything. The daughter-in-law was also always dissatisfied with something. The grandchildren grew up and moved to the city. Without them, the house was dreary. They sat down to have dinner. The old man was crumbled bread into milk, he sipped, sitting from the edge of the table. He carefully clinked his spoon against his plate, trying not to make any noise. They were silent. Then they went to bed. The old man climbed onto the stove, and the son and daughter-in-law went to the upper room. They were silent. What to talk about? All the words have long been said, The next evening the old man and the girl were again sitting on the shore, by the driftwood. The girl hastily drew, and the old man looked at the sun and said: - We always lived well, it's a sin to complain. I was a carpenter, there was always enough work. And my sons are all carpenters. Many of them were beaten in the war - four. Two left. Well, now I live with one, with Stepan. And Vanka lives in the city, in Biysk. Foreman on a new building. Writes; nothing, they live well. They came here and visited. I have many grandchildren, they love me. Everything is now in the cities ... The girl painted the old man's hands, was in a hurry, was nervous, often washed. - Was it difficult to live? she asked casually. - Why is it difficult? - the old man was surprised. - I'm telling you: they lived well. - Do you feel sorry for your sons? – But how? - the old man was surprised again. - Putting four of these is some kind of joke? The girl did not understand: either she felt sorry for the old man, or she was more surprised by his strange calmness and tranquility. And the sun was setting behind the mountains again. The dawn burned softly again. “There will be bad weather tomorrow,” said the old man. The girl looked at the clear sky: - Why? - Breaks me all. - The sky is very clear. The old man was silent. - Will you come tomorrow, grandfather? “I don’t know,” the old man did not immediately respond. - The girl took out a white pebble with a golden tint from the pocket of her jacket. - Which? the old man asked, continuing to look at the mountains. The girl handed him a stone. The old man held out his hand without turning around. - Such? he asked, glancing briefly at the pebble, and turned it over in dry, crooked fingers. This was during the war, when there were no silverworts, fire was extracted from it. The girl was struck by a strange guess: it seemed to her that the old man was blind. She did not immediately find something to talk about, was silent, looked sideways at the old man. And he looked to where the sun had set. Calmly, thoughtfully looked. - On ... a pebble, - he said and handed the girl a stone. - They're not like that yet. There are: all white, already translucent, and inside there are some specks. And there are: a testicle and a testicle - you can’t tell. There are: it looks like a magpie testicle - with speckles on the sides, and there are, like those of starlings, they are blue, also with a mountain ash with such. The girl kept looking at the old man. She did not dare to ask if it was true that he was blind. - Where do you live, grandfather? - It's not that far away. This is Ivan Kolokolnikov's house, - the old man showed the house on the shore, - further - the Bedarevs, then - the Volokitins, then - the Zinovievs, and there, in the alley, - ours. Come in if you need anything. We had grandchildren, and we had a lot of fun. - Thanks. - I went. Breaks me. The old man got up and walked up the path. The girl stared after him until he turned into an alley. Not once did the old man stumble, never hesitate. He walked slowly and looked at his feet. “No, not blind,” the girl realized. “Just poor eyesight.” The next day the old man did not come ashore. The girl sat alone, thinking about the old man, There was something in his life, so simple, so ordinary, something difficult, something big, significant. “The sun - it also just rises and just sets,” the girl thought. “Isn’t it easy!” And she stared at her drawings. She was sad. The old man did not come on the third day and on the fourth. The girl went to look for his house. Found. In the fence of a large five-walled house under an iron roof, in a corner, under a shed, a tall man of about fifty was planing a pine board on a workbench. “Hello,” the girl said. The man straightened up, looked at the girl, ran his thumb over his sweaty forehead, nodded: - Great. - Please tell me, grandfather lives here ... The man looked at the girl attentively and somehow strangely. She fell silent. “He lived,” said the man. “I’m doing a domino for him.” The girl opened her mouth: - He died, right? “He died.” The man leaned over the board again, shuffled his planer a couple of times, then looked at the girl. “What did you want?” “So… I drew him. “Ah.” The man shuffled sharply with his planer. Tell me, was he blind? the girl asked after a long silence. - Blind. - And how long? - It's been ten years. And what? - So ... The girl went out of the fence. On the street, she leaned against the wattle fence and cried. She felt sorry for her grandfather. And it was a pity that she could not tell about him. But now she felt some deeper meaning and mystery of human life and feat, and, without realizing it herself, she became much more mature.

It was a beautiful July day, one of those days that only happens 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 - peacefully rises 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 brilliance is like that of hammered silver.

But here again the playful rays gushed, - and cheerfully and majestic, as if taking off, the mighty luminary rises. 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 sleeves of even blue, they hardly budge; further, towards the sky, they shift, crowd, the blue between them can no longer be seen; but they themselves are as azure as the sky: they are all permeated through and through with light and warmth.

The color of the sky, light, pale lilac, does not change all day and is the same all around; nowhere does it get dark, the thunderstorm does not thicken; except in some places bluish stripes stretch from top to bottom: then a barely noticeable rain is sown. By evening, these clouds disappear; the last of them, blackish and indefinite as smoke, fall in rosy puffs against the setting sun; in the place where it set as calmly as it calmly ascended into the sky, a scarlet radiance stands for a short time over the darkened earth, and, quietly blinking, like a carefully carried candle, the evening star will light up on it.

On such days 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" over the slopes of the fields; but the wind disperses, pushes the accumulated heat, and whirlwinds - cycles - an undoubted sign of constant weather - walk like high white pillars along the roads through the arable land. In dry and clean air it smells of wormwood, compressed rye, buckwheat; even an hour before night you don't feel damp. The farmer wants such weather for harvesting grain ...

The moon has risen at last; I did not immediately notice it: it was so small and narrow. This moonless night, it seemed, was still as magnificent as before ... But already many stars, which until recently stood high in the sky, were already leaning towards the dark edge of the earth; everything was completely quiet all around, as usual everything calms down only towards morning: everything slept in a strong, motionless, pre-dawn sleep. The air no longer smelled so strongly, dampness seemed to be spreading in it again ... Short summer nights! .. The conversation of the boys faded away along with the lights ... The dogs even dozed off; the horses, as far as I could distinguish, in the slightly glimmering, weakly pouring light of the stars, also lay with their heads bowed ... A faint oblivion attacked me; it passed into slumber. jujuth