In the late summer of that year we lived in a house in a village that looked
across the river and the plain to the mountains. In the bed of the river there were
pebbles and boulders, dry and white in the sun, and the water was clear and swiftly
moving and blue in the channels. Troops went by the house and down the road and
the dust they raised powdered the leaves of the trees. The trunks of the trees too
were dusty and the leaves fell early that year and we saw the troops marching along
the road and the dust rising and leaves, stirred by the breeze, falling and the soldiers
marching and afterward the road bare and white except for the leaves.
A Farewell to Arms
You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of The
Adventures of Tom Sawyer; but that ain't no matter. That book was made by Mr.
Mark Twain, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched,
but mainly he told the truth.
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn