“At home in Moscow everything was in its winter routine; the stoves were heated, and in the morning it was still dark when the children were having breakfast and getting ready for school, and the nurse would light the lamp for a short time. The frosts had begun already. When the first snow has fallen, on the first day of sledge-driving it is pleasant to see the white earth, the white roofs, to draw soft, delicious breath, and the season brings back the days of ones youth. The old limes and birches, white with hoar-frost, have a good-natured expression; they are nearer to ones heart than cypresses and palms, and near them one doesn’t want to be thinking of the sea and the mountains.”
— Anton Chekhov
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