Ivan Sergeyevich Shmelev. The Year Of The Lord (№ 402542)

We sit hushed in the grass; smell last summer, dry bitterness, Apple fresh spirit; cobweb on the nettles, pour-tremble on the apples. It seems to me that they are shaking from the dry crackling grasshoppers.
- Autumn-song!.. says Gorkin sad. - Goodbye, summer.