Where does the beauty of the Russian land begin? Is it with a spring that gushes from a hill, or with a golden field stretching to the horizon, or perhaps with a birch grove filled with the song of nightingales? These are the thoughts of the poet and writer Vladimir Soloukhin as he dines in a peasant's house, gathers mushrooms in a forest clearing, and admires the beauty of the ancient Rostov Kremlin. The sound of bells echoes throughout the area: "Russia, Motherland, and people are words of the same root..."
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