Ernest Hemingway. For whom the bell tolls (№ 203963)

And I love the smell, as now. This, and the smell of freshly cut clover and trampled sage, when you go behind the herd, the smell of smoke from burning wood and autumn foliage. That smell must be the longing for the homeland - the smell of smoke, rising above the heaps of leaves that burn in the fall on the streets in Missoula.