Leo Tolstoy. Sunday (№ 27505)

As he tried the people gathered in one small place a few hundred thousand, to disfigure the land on which they clung, no matter how stoned earth on which nothing grew on it, no matter how clean off all the grass is coming, like it or smoked with coal and oil, like it or circumcise their trees and drove all the animals and birds - spring was spring, even in this city.