How beautiful in autumn in the forest. Description of the autumn forest in bright colors. Time for silence and inspiration. Miniature about autumn forest

Ivan Turgenev "Forest in autumn"

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the naked, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before your eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...

And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically lifting scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...

Here the summer is over. It's time for the "golden" season - autumn. In autumn, all nature is transformed. And how beautiful it is in the autumn forest! Already from afar, the forest attracts attention with a variety of its colors and it seems that some kind of magic is happening there. This beauty fills the soul with delight! In autumn, the forest breathes coolness, the air intoxicates with its freshness. The season of autumn leaves has begun. You walk along a forest path, and a velvety carpet of fallen leaves spreads under your feet, which at every step responds with its crunch. Here are the girlfriends - aspens: some of the foliage is still yellow, others are golden, and some have already turned red. Here the beauties of the birches hid, which had not yet had time to completely shed their foliage. And here leaves and bunches of mountain ash turn red. But the modest viburnum peeps out from behind a mighty oak, ripe berries flaunt on it. And what beautiful leaves the oak, maple and linden have! All, without exception, with a variety of interesting cutouts, it is even difficult to find two identical leaves! The leaves left on the trees rustle from the breath of a light breeze, and there is something exciting and mysterious in this sound. And some trees are already completely bare. Trees shed their foliage, as if falling into hibernation, in order to gain new strength during the winter, and in the spring to reveal their enchanting beauty again. And only spruces do not change their color, they remain in their lush green outfits all year round.

Gifts of the autumn forest

It's time to pick mushrooms in the autumn forest. Here, through the fallen leaves, the hat of a belated boletus blushes. But under the aspen, a red-headed boletus hid. Fragrant mushrooms are located under the Christmas trees, which almost never grow alone: ​​where you find one, you can safely look for others. Other mushrooms also come across in the autumn forest:

• boletus;
• russula;
• waves;
• mushrooms.

In the autumn forest, you can stock up on medicinal fruits of wild rose, viburnum, and red mountain ash. And if you're lucky, on the bumps, you can find berries of ripe lingonberries.

Autumn forest is a fairy tale!

The nights are darker, the morning mists are cooler. The dew does not dry until noon, the beads in spider webs sparkle like a necklace.

Necklaces, necklaces - a gift of autumn for a housewarming!

How long ago did elegant round dances of butterflies and golden midges circle the meadows, the flowers died from the chirping of grasshoppers and the bumblebee suffocated in his velvet fur coat with a magnificent collar! Today everything is different. Grasses are mowed, haystacks darkened from the rains. Butterflies are not visible, the violins of violinist grasshoppers have fallen silent, and the fur coat has become fit for bumblebees. No one in the late flowers, only bumblebees, and they seem to have raised their thick black collars higher ...

In the morning, the wires of the power line are humiliated by swallows. Not today, tomorrow they are on their way.

The parade is carried out by killer whales. Everyone is here? Is everyone ready? As if on command, they all take off at once, make a circle or two over the fields, meadows, again humiliate the wires.

It's time to go, it's time. Goodbye, villages on hillocks! See you in the spring, fields and meadows of the dear side!

Ukhoronki

Everyone has their own little tricks, everyone hides as best he can. There are those that you can’t wait and you don’t think! Once in the fall, a beautiful mourning woman, a golden-eyed frog and a warty toad got into the habit of hiding under my canoe. I’ll turn the boat over in the morning, and the hangers-on are in all directions: a butterfly in flight, a frog in the water, a toad in the grass. I will return from fishing, I will turn the boat over for the night - the next morning under it is the same trinity!

And then he dismantled the woodpile - so the lizards hid between the firewood. Forest mice once settled in the birdhouse - the birdhouse turned into a mouse house. The shingles in the yard were folded - bats lived in it. Every evening they flew out of the cracks and caught mosquitoes. Under the old trough, a family of shrews took root; so they darted back and forth in the evenings. The voles hid in the mound behind the house, every night the owl was on duty in the mound: would any one pop out? A spider in an eggshell settled in the mansions of white stone veins. And one dung beetle hid in a mushroom! He gnawed a passage in the leg and swarmed inside. So far, together with the mushroom, it didn’t hit the body. Although it was not called a load ...

Helpers are waiting

Trees, bushes and grasses rush to arrange their offspring.

Pairs of lionfish hang from the branches of the maple, they have already separated and are waiting to be plucked and picked up by the wind.

The grasses are also waiting for the winds: a bodyac, on the high stems of which lush tassels of grayish silky hairs are exposed from dry baskets; cattail, raising its stems with a top in a brown fur coat above the swamp grass; a hawk whose fluffy balls on a clear day are ready to scatter at the slightest breath.

And many other herbs, the fruitlets of which are provided with short or long, simple or feathery hairs, are also waiting for the wind.

In the deserted fields, along the roadsides and ditches, they wait, but not the wind, but four-legged and two-legged ones: burdock with dry hooked baskets tightly stuffed with faceted seeds, a string of black three-horned fruits that so willingly pierce stockings, and tenacious bedstraw, small round fruitlets which they cling to and roll up in a dress so that they can be torn out only with a tuft of hairs.

Beginning of autumn

Today at dawn, one lush birch stepped out of the forest into the clearing, as if in a crinoline, and another, timid, thin, dropped leaf after leaf onto the dark Christmas tree. Following this, while more and more dawn dawned, different trees began to appear to me in different ways. This always happens at the beginning of autumn, when, after a lush and common summer, a big change begins and the trees all begin to experience leaf fall in different ways.

I looked around me. Here is a tussock, combed by the paws of black grouse. Previously, it used to be that in the hole of such a hummock you would certainly find a feather of a black grouse or a capercaillie, and if it is pockmarked, then you know that the female was digging, if black - a rooster. Now, in the pits of combed tussocks, there are not feathers of birds, but fallen yellow leaves. And then here is an old, old russula, huge, like a plate, all red, and the edges are wrapped up from old age, and a yellow birch leaf floats in the dish.

Aspen is cold

On a sunny day in autumn, young multi-colored aspens gathered at the edge of the spruce forest, densely one to the other, as if it had become cold there, in the spruce forest, and they went out to bask on the edge, as in our villages people go out into the sun and sit on the rubble.

autumn dew

It was overshadowing. Flies bang on the ceiling. The sparrows are herding. Rooks - in harvested fields. Magpie families graze on the roads. Roski cold, gray. Another dewdrop in the bosom of the leaf sparkles all day.

Windy day

This fresh wind knows how to speak tenderly to the hunter, just as the hunters themselves often chat among themselves from an excess of joyful expectations. You can speak and you can be silent: conversation and silence are easy for a hunter. It happens that the hunter tells something animatedly, but suddenly something flashed in the air, the hunter looked there and then: “What was I talking about?” I didn’t remember, and - nothing: you can start something else. So the hunting wind in autumn constantly whispers about something and, without saying one thing, goes on to another; here came the muttering of a young black grouse and stopped, the cranes cry.

leaf fall

Here a hare came out of the thick fir trees under a birch and stopped when he saw a large clearing. He did not dare to go straight to the other side and went around the whole clearing from birch to birch. So he stopped and listened. Whoever is afraid of something in the forest, it is better not to go while the leaves are falling and whispering. The hare listens: everything seems to him as if someone is whispering from behind and sneaking. It is possible, of course, for a cowardly hare to gain courage and not look back, but something else happens here: you were not afraid, you did not succumb to the deception of falling leaves, but just then someone took advantage and grabbed you in the teeth from behind under the guise.

rowan blushes

Morning is light. There are no cobwebs at all on clearings. Very quiet. I hear zhelnu, jay, thrush. Mountain ash is very red, birches begin to turn yellow. White, a little more moths, butterflies occasionally fly over the mowed grass.

autumn leaves

Just before sunrise, the first frost falls on the clearing. Hide, wait at the edge - what is only being done there, in a forest clearing! In the twilight of dawn, invisible forest creatures come and then begin to spread white canvases all over the clearing. The very first rays of the sun remove the canvases, and a green place remains on the white. Little by little, everything white disappears, and only in the shade of trees and hummocks do little white wedges remain for a long time.

In the blue sky between the golden trees you won't understand what's going on. The wind blows leaves or small birds gather in flocks and rush to warm distant lands.

The wind is a caring master. During the summer, he will visit everywhere, and even in the densest places he does not have a single unfamiliar leaf. But autumn has come - and the caring owner is harvesting his crops.

Leaves, falling, whisper, saying goodbye forever. After all, it’s always like this with them: since you broke away from your native kingdom, then say goodbye, you died.

last flowers

Another frosty night. In the morning on the field I saw a group of surviving blue bells - a bumblebee was sitting on one of them. I tore off the bell, the bumblebee did not fly off, shook off the bumblebee, it fell. I put him under a hot beam, he came to life, recovered and flew. And on the neck of the cancer, in the same way, a red dragonfly froze overnight and, before my eyes, recovered under the hot beam and flew away. And grasshoppers in huge numbers began to fall from under their feet, and among them were cracklings, flying up with a crackle, blue and bright red.

Forest in autumn

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before your eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...

And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically lifting scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...

Autumn day in a birch grove

I was sitting in a birch grove in autumn, about half of September. From the very morning a fine rain fell, replaced at times by warm sunshine; the weather was erratic. The sky was either clouded over with loose white clouds, then it suddenly cleared in places for a moment, and then behind the parted clouds a azure appeared, clear and gentle ...

I sat and looked around and listened. The leaves rustled a little over my head; one could tell from their noise what season it was then. It was not the cheerful, laughing thrill of spring, not the soft whispering, not the long talk of summer, not the timid and cold babble of late autumn, but barely audible, drowsy chatter. A light wind blew a little over the tops. The inside of the grove, damp from the rain, was constantly changing, depending on whether the sun shone or was covered with clouds; at one time it lit up all over, as if all of a sudden everything was smiling in it ... then suddenly everything around it again turned slightly blue: the bright colors instantly went out ... and stealthily, slyly, the tiniest rain began to sow and whisper through the forest.

The foliage on the birch trees was still almost all green, although it had noticeably turned pale; only here and there stood one young woman, all red or all gold...

Not a single bird was heard: everyone took shelter and fell silent; only occasionally did the mocking voice of the tit tinkle like a steel bell.

Autumn

The chirping swallows flew south a long time ago, and even earlier, as if on cue, swift swifts disappeared.

In the autumn days, the children heard how, saying goodbye to their dear homeland, flying cranes were cooing in the sky. With some special feeling, they looked after them for a long time, as if the cranes were taking the summer away with them.

Quietly talking, geese flew to the warm south ...

People are getting ready for the cold winter. Rye and wheat have long been cut down. Prepared feed for livestock. They pick the last apples in the orchards. They dug up potatoes, beets, carrots and harvest them for the winter.

The animals are getting ready for winter. The nimble squirrel accumulated nuts in a hollow, dried selected mushrooms. Little mice-voles dragged grains into their burrows, prepared fragrant soft hay.

In late autumn, a hardworking hedgehog builds its winter lair. He dragged a whole heap of dry leaves under the old stump. All winter will sleep peacefully under a warm blanket.

Less and less, the autumn sun warms more and more sparingly.

Soon, the first frosts will begin soon.

Mother Earth will freeze until spring. Everyone took everything from her that she could give.

Forest in autumn

The Russian forest is beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Against the golden background of yellowed foliage, bright spots of red-yellow maples and aspens stand out. Slowly spinning in the air, light, weightless yellow leaves fall and fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of light cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. The late fall flowers are still blooming.

Clear and clean air. Clear water in forest ditches and streams. Every pebble at the bottom is visible.

Quiet in the autumn forest. Fallen leaves rustle underfoot. Sometimes a hazel grouse will whistle thinly. And that makes the silence even louder.

Easy to breathe in the autumn forest. And I don't want to leave it for a long time. It's good in the autumn flowery forest... But something sad, farewell is heard and seen in it.

Antonov apples

I remember the early fine autumn. August was with warm rains at the very time, in the middle of the month. I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning ... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinned garden, I remember maple alleys, the delicate aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it's like it doesn't exist at all. Everywhere smells strongly of apples.

By night it becomes very cold and dewy. Breathing in the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home to dinner past the garden rampart. The voices in the village or the creaking of the gates resound through the icy dawn with unusual clarity. It's getting dark. And here's another smell: in the garden - a fire and strongly pulls the fragrant smoke of cherry branches. In the dark, in the depths of the garden - a fabulous picture: just in a corner of hell, a crimson flame is burning near the hut, surrounded by darkness ...

"A vigorous Antonovka - for a merry year." Village affairs are good if Antonovka is born: it means that bread is born too ... I remember a harvest year.

At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing, you used to open a window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly in some places ... You run to wash yourself on the pond. The small foliage has almost completely flown from the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy and as if heavy. She instantly drives away the night's laziness.

You will enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others.

Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and ruffled the trees for whole days, the rains watered them from morning to night.

The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above heavy lead clouds, and behind these clouds the ridges of snowy mountain-clouds slowly floated up, the window in the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and dull, and it began to rain again ... at first quietly, cautiously, then more and more thickly, and finally turned into a downpour with a storm and darkness. It's been a long, unsettling night...

From such a beating, the garden came out completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow hushed, resigned. But on the other hand, how beautiful it was when the clear weather came again, the transparent and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first frost. The black garden will shine through in the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already sharply turning black with arable land and bright green with bushy winter crops ...

You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. The whole house is silent. Ahead - a whole day of rest in the already silent winter estate. You will slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find in the wet foliage an accidentally forgotten cold and wet apple, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others.

I. Sokolov-Mikitov

The chirping swallows flew south a long time ago, and even earlier, as if on cue, swift swifts disappeared.

In the autumn days, the children heard how, saying goodbye to their dear homeland, flying cranes were cooing in the sky. With some special feeling, they looked after them for a long time, as if the cranes were taking the summer away with them.

Quietly talking, geese flew to the warm south ...

People are getting ready for the cold winter. Rye and wheat have long been cut down. Prepared feed for livestock. They pick the last apples in the orchards. They dug up potatoes, beets, carrots and harvest them for the winter.

The animals are getting ready for winter. The nimble squirrel accumulated nuts in a hollow, dried selected mushrooms. Little mice-voles dragged grains into their burrows, prepared fragrant soft hay.

In late autumn, a hardworking hedgehog builds its winter lair. He dragged a whole heap of dry leaves under the old stump. All winter will sleep peacefully under a warm blanket.

Less and less, the autumn sun warms more and more sparingly.

Soon, the first frosts will begin soon.

Mother Earth will freeze until spring. Everyone took everything from her that she could give.

Autumn

It's been a fun summer. Here comes autumn. It's time to harvest. Vanya and Fedya are digging potatoes. Vasya picks beets and carrots, and Fenya picks beans. There are many plums in the garden. Vera and Felix pick fruit and send it to the school cafeteria. There everyone is treated with ripe and tasty fruits.

In the woods

Grisha and Kolya went into the forest. They picked mushrooms and berries. They put mushrooms in a basket, and berries in a basket. Suddenly thunder boomed. The sun has disappeared. Clouds appeared all around. The wind bent the trees to the ground. There was a big rain. The boys went to the forester's house. Soon the forest became quiet. Rain stopped. The sun came out. Grisha and Kolya went home with mushrooms and berries.

Mushrooms

The guys went to the forest for mushrooms. Roma found a beautiful boletus under a birch. Valya saw a small butter dish under a pine tree. Serezha saw a huge boletus in the grass. In the grove they collected full baskets of various mushrooms. The children returned home happy and happy.

Forest in autumn

I. Sokolov-Mikitov

The Russian forest is beautiful and sad in the early autumn days. Against the golden background of yellowed foliage, bright spots of red-yellow maples and aspens stand out. Slowly spinning in the air, light, weightless yellow leaves fall and fall from the birches. Thin silver threads of light cobwebs stretched from tree to tree. The late fall flowers are still blooming.

Clear and clean air. Clear water in forest ditches and streams. Every pebble at the bottom is visible.

Quiet in the autumn forest. Fallen leaves rustle underfoot. Sometimes a hazel grouse will whistle thinly. And that makes the silence even louder.

Easy to breathe in the autumn forest. And I don't want to leave it for a long time. It's good in the autumn flowery forest... But something sad, farewell is heard and seen in it.

nature in autumn

The mysterious princess Autumn will take the tired nature into her hands, dress her in golden outfits and soak her with long rains. Autumn will calm the breathless earth, blow away the last leaves with the wind and lay in the cradle of a long winter sleep.

Autumn day in a birch grove

I was sitting in a birch grove in autumn, about half of September. From the very morning a fine rain fell, replaced at times by warm sunshine; the weather was erratic. The sky was either clouded over with loose white clouds, then it suddenly cleared in places for a moment, and then behind the parted clouds a azure appeared, clear and gentle ...

I sat and looked around and listened. The leaves rustled a little over my head; one could tell from their noise what season it was then. It was not the cheerful, laughing thrill of spring, not the soft whispering, not the long talk of summer, not the timid and cold babble of late autumn, but barely audible, drowsy chatter. A light wind blew a little over the tops. The inside of the grove, damp from the rain, was constantly changing, depending on whether the sun shone or was covered with clouds; at one time it lit up all over, as if all of a sudden everything was smiling in it ... then suddenly everything around it again turned slightly blue: the bright colors instantly went out ... and stealthily, slyly, the tiniest rain began to sow and whisper through the forest.

The foliage on the birch trees was still almost all green, although it had noticeably turned pale; only here and there stood one young woman, all red or all gold...

Not a single bird was heard: everyone took shelter and fell silent; only occasionally did the mocking voice of the tit tinkle like a steel bell.

An autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove sparkles through and through, as if it it’s fun and easy to stand naked, the frost is still white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, quietly raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...

By the beginning of September, the weather suddenly changed dramatically and quite unexpectedly. Quiet and cloudless days immediately set in, so clear, sunny and warm that there were none even in July. On the dry, compressed fields, on their prickly yellow bristles, autumn cobwebs shone with a mica sheen. The calmed trees silently and obediently dropped their yellow leaves.

Late fall

Korolenko Vladimir Galaktionovich

Late autumn is coming. The fruit is heavy; he breaks down and falls to the ground. He dies, but the seed lives in him, and in this seed the whole future plant lives in "possibility", with its future luxurious foliage and with its new fruit. The seed will fall to the ground; and the cold sun is already rising low above the earth, a cold wind is running, cold clouds are rushing ... Not only passion, but life itself freezes quietly, imperceptibly ... The earth more and more emerges from under the green with its blackness, cold tones dominate in the sky ... And then the day comes when millions of snowflakes fall on this resigned and hushed, as if widowed earth, and it all becomes even, uniform and white ... White is the color of cold snow, the color of the highest clouds that float in unattainable cold heavenly heights - the color of majestic and barren mountain peaks ...

Antonov apples

Bunin Ivan Alekseevich

I remember the early fine autumn. August was with warm rains at the very time, in the middle of the month. I remember an early, fresh, quiet morning ... I remember a large, all golden, dried up and thinned garden, I remember maple alleys, the delicate aroma of fallen leaves and the smell of Antonov apples, the smell of honey and autumn freshness. The air is so clean, it's like it doesn't exist at all. Everywhere smells strongly of apples.

By night it becomes very cold and dewy. Breathing in the rye aroma of new straw and chaff on the threshing floor, you cheerfully walk home to dinner past the garden rampart. The voices in the village or the creaking of the gates resound through the icy dawn with unusual clarity. It's getting dark. And here's another smell: in the garden - a fire and strongly pulls the fragrant smoke of cherry branches. In the dark, in the depths of the garden - a fabulous picture: just in a corner of hell, a crimson flame is burning near the hut, surrounded by darkness ...

"A vigorous Antonovka - for a merry year." Village affairs are good if Antonovka is born: it means that bread is born too ... I remember a harvest year.

At early dawn, when the roosters are still crowing, you used to open a window into a cool garden filled with a lilac fog, through which the morning sun shines brightly in some places ... You run to wash yourself on the pond. The small foliage has almost completely flown from the coastal vines, and the branches are visible in the turquoise sky. The water under the vines became clear, icy and as if heavy. She instantly drives away the night's laziness.

You will enter the house and first of all you will hear the smell of apples, and then others.

Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and ruffled the trees for whole days, the rains watered them from morning to night.

The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above heavy lead clouds, and behind these clouds the ridges of snowy mountain-clouds slowly floated up, the window in the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and dull, and it began to rain again ... at first quietly, cautiously, then more and more thickly, and finally turned into a downpour with a storm and darkness. It's been a long, unsettling night...

From such a beating, the garden came out completely naked, covered with wet leaves and somehow hushed, resigned. But on the other hand, how beautiful it was when the clear weather came again, the transparent and cold days of early October, the farewell holiday of autumn! The preserved foliage will now hang on the trees until the first frost. The black garden will shine through in the cold turquoise sky and dutifully wait for winter, warming itself in the sunshine. And the fields are already sharply turning black with arable land and bright green with bushy winter crops ...

You wake up and lie in bed for a long time. The whole house is silent. Ahead - a whole day of rest in the already silent winter estate. You will slowly get dressed, wander around the garden, find in the wet foliage an accidentally forgotten cold and wet apple, and for some reason it will seem unusually tasty, not at all like the others.

Dictionary of native nature

It is impossible to list the signs of all seasons. Therefore, I skip summer and move on to autumn, to its first days, when “September” is already beginning.

The earth is fading, but the “Indian summer” is still ahead with its last bright, but already cold, like a shine of mica, the radiance of the sun. From the deep blue of skies washed with cool air. With a flying cobweb (“yarn of the Virgin,” as devout old women still call it in some places) and a fallen, withered leaf, falling asleep empty waters. Birch groves stand like crowds of beautiful girls in short shawls embroidered with gold leaf. "A sad time - the charm of the eyes."

Then - bad weather, heavy rains, the icy north wind "siverko", plowing leaden waters, coldness, coldness, pitch-black nights, icy dew, dark dawns.

So everything goes on until the first frost seizes, binds the earth, the first powder falls and the first path is established. And there is already winter with blizzards, blizzards, snowstorms, snowfall, gray frosts, landmarks in the fields, the creak of undercuts on the sledge, gray, snowy skies ...

Often in the autumn I would closely watch the falling leaves to catch that imperceptible split second when the leaf separates from the branch and begins to fall to the ground, but I did not succeed for a long time. I have read in old books about the sound of falling leaves, but I have never heard that sound. If the leaves rustled, it was only on the ground, under the feet of a person. The rustle of leaves in the air seemed to me as unbelievable as stories about hearing the grass grow in spring.

I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the rattle of the city streets, could rest and catch the very clear and precise sounds of the autumn earth.

Late one evening I went out into the garden to the well. I put a dim "bat" kerosene lantern on the log house and got some water. Leaves were floating in the bucket. They were everywhere. There was nowhere to get rid of them. Black bread from the bakery was brought with wet leaves stuck to it. The wind threw handfuls of leaves on the table, on the bunk, on the floor. on books, and it was difficult to groom along the paths of fat: you had to walk on the leaves, as if on deep snow. We found leaves in the pockets of our raincoats, in caps, in our hair - everywhere. We slept on them and soaked in their scent.

There are autumn nights, deafened and mute, when calmness hangs over the black wooded edge and only the watchman's beater comes from the village outskirts.

It was such a night. The lantern illuminated the well, the old maple tree under the fence, and the wind-torn nasturtium bush in the yellowed flower bed.

I looked at the maple tree and saw how a red leaf carefully and slowly separated from the branch, shuddered, stopped for a moment in the air and began to fall obliquely at my feet, slightly rustling and swaying. For the first time I heard the rustle of a falling leaf - an indistinct sound, like a child's whisper.

My house

Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich

It is especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when a leisurely sheer rain rustles in an undertone in the salou.

Cool air barely shakes the tongue of the candle. Corner shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. A night butterfly, resembling a lump of gray raw silk, sits on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page. It smells of rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.

At dawn I wake up. Fog rustles in the garden. Leaves fall in the mist. I pull a bucket of water from the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd's horn - he still sings far away, at the very outskirts.

It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. I'm sailing in the fog. The East is rosy. The smell of the smoke of rural stoves is no longer heard. There remains only the silence of the water, thickets of centuries-old willows.

Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lostness in this vast world of fragrant foliage, herbs, autumn wilt, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this loss as happiness.

What are the rains

Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich

(Excerpt from the story "Golden Rose")

The sun sets in clouds, smoke falls to the ground, swallows fly low, roosters crow in the yards without time, clouds stretch across the sky in long misty strands - all these are signs of rain. And shortly before the rain, although the clouds have not yet pulled, a gentle breath of moisture is heard. It must be brought from where the rains have already fallen.

But the first drops are starting to drip. The popular word "dripping" well conveys the occurrence of rain, when even rare drops leave dark specks on dusty paths and roofs.

Then the rain disperses. It is then that the wonderful cool smell of the earth, first moistened by the dogge, arises. He doesn't last long. It is replaced by the smell of wet grass, especially nettle.

It is characteristic that, no matter what kind of rain it will be, as soon as it starts, it is always called very affectionately - rain. “The rain has gathered”, “the rain has let go”, “the rain washes the grass” ...

How, for example, is the difference between spore rain and mushroom rain?

The word "arguable" means - fast, fast. Spore rain pours steeply, strongly. He always approaches with an oncoming noise.

Particularly good is the spore rain on the river. Each drop of it knocks out a round depression in the water, a small water bowl, jumps, falls again and for a few moments before disappearing, is still visible at the bottom of this water bowl. The drop glistens and looks like a pearl.

At the same time, there is a glass ringing all over the river. By the height of this ringing, you can guess whether the rain is gaining strength or subsiding.

A small mushroom rain sleepily pours from low clouds. The puddles from this rain are always warm. He does not ring, but whispers something of his own, soporific, and is slightly noticeably fiddling in the bushes, as if touching one leaf or another with a soft paw.

Forest humus and moss absorb this rain slowly, thoroughly. Therefore, after it, mushrooms begin to climb violently - sticky butterflies, yellow chanterelles, mushrooms, ruddy mushrooms, honey agarics and countless grebes.

During mushroom rains, the air smells of smoke and the cunning and cautious fish - roach - takes well.

People say about the blind rain falling in the sun: "The princess is crying." The sparkling sun drops of this rain look like large tears. And who should cry with such shining tears of grief or joy, if not the fabulous beauty of the princess!

You can follow the play of light during the rain for a long time, the variety of sounds - from the measured knock on the boarded roof and the liquid ringing in the drainpipe to the continuous, intense rumble when the rain pours, as they say, like a wall.

All this is only a tiny part of what can be said about the rain ...