At he beginning of that June

At he beginning of that June, rain fell with a frequency unusual in summer time, but it was gentle, autumnally light, without storm or wind. Each morning an ashen grey cloud crept over the sky from the west, over the distant rises. It swelled and broadened until it filled half the sky; its dark underwings whitened ominously, and then it dropped till its lower fringes, as translucent as muslin, clung to the ricks standing in the steppe, to the burial mounds, to the windmills; thunder rolled somewhere very high and good naturedly, quietly and a copious rain began to fall.
The rain fell plentifully, as warm as fresh milk, on the earth waiting in the misty stillness. The drops danced in white bubbles on the foaming puddles, and so gentle and peaceable was the summer shower that it did no bent the heads of the flowers. Even the chickens on the yards din not shelter from it. They went on fussing busily around the sheds and the damp, blackened wattle fenced on search of food, an taking not notice of the rain, the cooks crowed their long drawn out calls. Their brave voices blended with the chattering of the sparrows boldly bathing in the puddles, an d with the whistle of the swallows as they dropped down in vehement fly to the graciously welcoming earth with its smell of rain and dust.
The village cocks produced an amazing variety of crows, The Liubishkins’ cock was the first to wake up, beginning the interchange at midnight. He crowed in a cheerful, flowing tenor tone, like a young and enthusiastic commander, the cock in Agafon’s yard answered him in a solid baritone like a colonel; then for a good five minutes the whole village echoed and rechoed with incessant crowing. Last of all, the Maidannikovs’ rufous and corpulent cock opened up, first muttering sleepy, strong beating his wings as he squatted, then in general’s hoarse bass, with a commanding croak. He was the oldest cock in the village
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

At he beginning of that June

At he beginning of that June, rain fell with a frequency unusual in summer time, but it was gentle, autumnally light, without storm or wind. Each morning an ashen grey cloud crept over the sky from the west, over the distant rises. It swelled and broadened until it filled half the sky; its dark underwings whitened ominously, and then it dropped till its lower fringes, as translucent as muslin, clung to the ricks standing in the steppe, to the burial mounds, to the windmills; thunder rolled somewhere very high and good naturedly, quietly and a copious rain began to fall.
The rain fell plentifully, as warm as fresh milk, on the earth waiting in the misty stillness. The drops danced in white bubbles on the foaming puddles, and so gentle and peaceable was the summer shower that it did no bent the heads of the flowers. Even the chickens on the yards din not shelter from it. They went on fussing busily around the sheds and the damp, blackened wattle fenced on search of food, an taking not notice of the rain, the cooks crowed their long drawn out calls. Their brave voices blended with the chattering of the sparrows boldly bathing in the puddles, an d with the whistle of the swallows as they dropped down in vehement fly to the graciously welcoming earth with its smell of rain and dust.
The village cocks produced an amazing variety of crows, The Liubishkins’ cock was the first to wake up, beginning the interchange at midnight. He crowed in a cheerful, flowing tenor tone, like a young and enthusiastic commander, the cock in Agafon’s yard answered him in a solid baritone like a colonel; then for a good five minutes the whole village echoed and rechoed with incessant crowing. Last of all, the Maidannikovs’ rufous and corpulent cock opened up, first muttering sleepy, strong beating his wings as he squatted, then in general’s hoarse bass, with a commanding croak. He was the oldest cock in the village
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

Simenion Davidod the soviet farm chairman

Simenion Davidod the soviet farm chairman was oppressed by an irresistible longing to do some physical labour. All his strong ,healthy body dried out for work: for work which by the end of the day would make all his muscles ache with heavy yet pleasant weariness, and ensure easy, dreamless sleep.
One day he went along to the smithy to see how the repair of the communal harvesting implements was progressing. The acrid, bitter scent of heated iron and burning coal, the ringing song of the anvil and the hoarse, complaining wheezes of the ancient bellows made his heart beat violently. He stood for several minutes in the twilit forge with his eyes closed beatifically, silently, almost painfully, enjoying smells he had known since childhood. Then he could not resist the temptation any longer: he picked up a sledge hammer. For two days he worked from dawn to dusk, and did not leave the smithy. The smith’s wife brought him his dinner. But how could he do a good work when he was called away every few minutes? The shoe went blue and cold in the tongs, the old smith, Sidorovich, grumbled, and his apprentice openly grinned as he noticed that Davidod’s hand, weary with the physical strain, wrote absurdly squiggles instead of letters on the official documents brought to him, and sometimes even dropped the pencil on the earthen floor.
Davidov hated working in such conditions and, to avoid being a hindrance to the smith, swearing as jucily as any bo’sun, he went back in a foul temper to his seat in the collective farm office
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

He awoke after sunrise

He awoke after sunrise. In that short hour or so of sleep he had had many dreams, and all of them unpleasant.
When he woke up he sat a long time on his bed, staring idiotically with terror stricken eyes. ‘Such filthy dreams don’t bode any good. There’s some misfortune on the way,’ he decided , feeling an unpleasant weight on his heart and spitting with disgust at the very memory of his dreams.
He dressed in the gloomiest of moods, kicking away the cat which rubbed itself against his legs; at breakfast he called his wife a ‘little fool’ for not reason whatever, and when his daughter in law ineptly joined in the farm talk at the table, he even waved his spoon at her as if he were not a grown woman but a little girl. Siemion was highly amused at his father’s lack of control: he pulled a stupid, terrified face and winked at his wife, who shook with silent laughter. That put Yakov Lukich right out of humour: he flung his spoon down on the table and shouted in a voice quivering with rage:
’You’re grinning now, but before long you may be crying.’
To make things worse, as he demonstratively left the table without finishing his breakfast he put his hand down on the edge of his plate and sent his unfinished, hot beetroot soup over his trousers. His daughter in law hid her face with both hands and flew into the passage. Siemion remained seated at the table, his head in his hands; but his muscular back shook and his broad shoulders rose and fell with his laughter. Even Yakov’s everlastingly straight faced wife could not help laughing.
‘What’s the matter with you today, father?’ she asked. Did you get out of bed with your left foot first, or have you had a bad dream ?
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

After the rain the earth was swollen with moisture

After the rain the earth was swollen with moisture, and when the wind scattered the clouds, it languished in the dazzling sunlight and steamed with a dove gray haze. Of a morning, a mist arose from the stream and the swampy, muddy leas. It billowed over Gremyachy Log. Hastened toward the steppe uplands and there melted, dissolving imperceptibly into a delicate turquoise haze. As late as noonday a leaden – heavy . copious dew lay like shot scattered over the leaves of the trees, over the red-thatched roofs of the houses and sheds, and pressed down the grasses.
Over the steppe the quitch-grass rose above the knee. Beyond the pasture lands the melilot was in blossom. In the late afternoon its honeyed scent spread all through the village, filling the girls’ hearts with a fretting languor. The winter wheat extended right to the horizon in a solid dark green wall; the spring grain rejoiced the eye with its unusually close-sprouting shoots; on the slopes of the hillocks and the dry hollows the more recently sown millet was pricking through the ground . The sandier patches were thickly brushed with the spikes of young maize.
Towards the middle of June a spell of settled weather began; not a cloud was to be seen in the sky; and beneath the sun the blossoming, rain-washed steppe was marvelously coloured. Now it was like a young mother feeding her child at the breast: usually beautiful, tranquil, a little weary and beaming with the fine, pure and happy smile of motherhood.
From the book “Harvest on the Don” by Mikhail Sholokhov (translated from the Russian by H.C.Stevens)

From Virginia’s airy situation

From Virginia’s airy situation one could look over a vast far-reaching panorama of mountain ranges and deserts; and whether the day was bright or overcast, whether the sun was rising or setting, or flaming in the zenith, or whether night and the moon held sway, the spectacle was always impressive and beautiful. Over your head Mount Davidson lifted its gray dome, and before and below you a rugged canyon clove the battlement hills, making a sombre gateway through which a soft-tinted desert was glimpsed, with the silver thread of a river winding through it, bordered with trees which many miles of distance diminished to a delicate fringe; and still further away the snowy mountains rose up and stretched their long barrier to the filmy horizon – far enough beyond a lake that burned in the desert like a fallen sun, though that. Itself, lay fifty miles removed.
Look from your window where you would, there was fascination in the picture. At rare intervals – but very rare – there were clouds in our skies, and then the setting sun would gild and flush and glorify this mighty expanse of scenery with a bewildering pomp of color that held the eye like a spell and moved the spirit like music.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

The island was a long hill of ashes

The island was a long, moderately high hill of ashes – nothing but gray ashes and pumice stone, in which we sunk to our knees at every step – and all around the top was a forbidding wall of scorched and blasted rocks. When we reached the top and got within the wall, we found simply a shallow, far reaching basin, carpeted with ashes, and here and there a patch of fine sand. In places, picturesque jets of stream shot up of crevices, giving evidence that although this ancient crater had gone out of active business, there was still some fire left in its furnaces. Close to one of these jets of steams stood the only tree on the island a small pine of most graceful shape and most faultless symmetry; its colour was a brilliant green, for the steam drifted unceasingly through its branches and kept them always moist. It contrasted strangely enough, did this vigorous and beautiful outcast, with its dead and dismal surroundings. It was like a cheerful spirit in a mourning household.
We hunted for the spring everywhere, traversing the full length of the island (two or three miles), and crossing it twice – climbing ash hills patiently, and then slidding down the other side in a sitting posture, plowing up smothering volumes of gray dust.. But we found nothing but solitude, ashes and a heart breaking silence. Finally we noticed that the wind had risen, and we forgot our thirst in a solitude of grater importance; for, the lake being quiet, we had not taken pains about securing our landing place, and then – but mere words cannot describe our dismay- the boat was gone!
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless

Mono Lake lies in a lifeless, treeless, hideous desert, eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, and is guarded by mountains two thousand feet higher, whose summits are always clothed in clouds. This solemn, silent, sail less sea- this lonely tenant of the loneliest spot on earth – is little graced with the picturesque. It is an unpretending expanse of grayish water, about a hundred miles in circumference, with two islands in its center, mere upheavals of rent and scorched and blistered lava, snowed with gray banks and drifts of pumice-stone and ashes, the winding sheet of the dead volcano, whose vast crater the lake has seized upon and occupied.
The lake is two hundred feet deep, and its sluggish waters are so strong with alkali that if you only dip the most hopelessly soiled garment into them once or twice and wring it out, it will be found as clean as if it had been through the ablest of washerwomen’ hands. While we camped there our laundry work was easy. We tied the week’s washing astern of our boat, and sailed a quarter of a mile, and the job was complete, all to the wringing out. If we threw the water on our heads and gave them a rub or so, the white lather would pile up three inches high.
From the book “Roughing it” written by “Mark Twain.”