The forest was turning a golden yellow

The forest was turning a golden yellow. The ripened reeds bent warily over the Don side marshes. Blending with the dusk, an early autumnal, drowsy, azure haze enwrapped the village. He gazed at the Don, the chalky ridge of hills, the forest lurking in a lilac haze beyond the river, and the steppe. At the turn beyond the cross-roads the fine outline of the wayside shrine was silhouetted against the sky
Pantaleimon’s ears caught the hardly audible sound of the wheels and the yapping of dogs. Two wagonettes turned out of the square into the street. In the first sat Miron with his wife at his side: opposite them was granddad Grishaka in a new uniform, wearing his cross of Saint George and his medals. Mitka drove, sitting carelessly on the box, and not troubling to show the foaming horses his whip.
Pantaleimon’s threw open the gate, and the two wagonettes drove into the yard. Illinichna sailed down the porch, the hem of her dress trailing in the dust.
‘Of your kindness, dear friends! Do our poor hut the honour of entering.’ She bent her corpulent waist in a bow.
His head on one side, Pantaleimon flung open his arms and welcomed them: ‘We humbly invite you to come in !
He called for the horses to be unharnessed and went towards the newcomers. After exchanging greetings they followed their host and hostess into the best room, were a crowd of already half-intoxicated guests was sitting around the table. Soon after their arrival the newly married couple returned from the church. As they entered Pantaleimon poured out a glass of vodka, tears standing in hi eyes.
“Well, Miron Gregorievitch, here’s to our children ! May their life be filled with good, as ours has been. May they live happily, and enjoy the best of health.’
From the book ‘And quiet Flows the Don’ by Mikhail Sholokhov, translated by Stephen Garry