Prishvin his stories. Stories about the nature of Russian writers. The moral core of children's stories by M. Prishvin

Georgy Skrebitsky “Forest Echo”

I was then five or six years old. We lived in the village.

One day my mother went into the forest to pick strawberries and took me with her. There were a lot of strawberries that year. She grew up right outside the village, in an old forest clearing.

I still remember this day, although more than fifty years have passed since then. It was sunny and hot like summer. But as soon as we approached the forest, suddenly a blue cloud came running and frequent heavy rain fell from it. And the sun continued to shine. Raindrops fell to the ground, splashing heavily on the leaves. They hung on the grass, on the branches of bushes and trees, and the sun was reflected and played in each drop.

Before my mother and I had time to stand under the tree, the sunny rain had already stopped.

“Look, Yura, how beautiful it is,” said my mother, coming out from under the branches.

I looked. A rainbow stretched across the entire sky in a multi-colored arc. One end of it abutted our village, and the other went far into the meadows beyond the river.

- Wow, great! - I said. - Just like a bridge. I wish I could run through it!

“You better run on the ground,” my mother laughed, and we went into the forest to pick strawberries.

We wandered through clearings near hummocks and stumps and found large ripe berries everywhere.

Light steam came from the sun-heated earth after the rain. The air smelled of flowers, honey and strawberries. If you smell this wonderful smell with your nose, it’s like you’re taking a sip of some kind of fragrant, sweet drink. And to make this seem even more true, I picked strawberries and put them not in a basket, but directly in my mouth.

I ran through the bushes, shaking off the last raindrops. Mom wandered nearby, and therefore I was not at all afraid of getting lost in the forest.

A large yellow butterfly flew over the clearing. I grabbed the cap from my head and rushed after it. But the butterfly either descended to the grass itself, then rose up. I chased and chased after her, but I never caught her - she flew off somewhere into the forest.

Completely out of breath, I stopped and looked around. “Where is mom?” She was nowhere to be seen.

- Aw! - I shouted, as I used to shout near the house, playing hide and seek.

And suddenly, from somewhere far away, from the depths of the forest, a response was heard: “Ay!”

I even shuddered. Have I really run so far away from my mother? Where is she? How to find her? The whole forest, previously so cheerful, now seemed mysterious and scary to me.

“Mom!.. Mom!..” I screamed with all my might, already ready to cry.

“A-ma-ma-ma-ma-a-a-a!” - as if someone in the distance was mimicking me. And at that very second my mother ran out from behind the neighboring bushes.

- Why are you shouting? What's happened? - she asked fearfully.

- I thought you were far away! — I immediately calmed down, I answered. “There’s someone teasing you in the forest.”

- Who's teasing? - Mom didn’t understand.

- Don't know. I scream and so does he. Listen here! - and I again, but this time bravely shouted: - Ay! Aw!

“Aw! Av! Aw!” - echoed from the distance of the forest.

- Yes, it’s an echo! - said mom.

- Echo? What is it doing there?

I listened to my mother in disbelief. “How is this so? It’s my voice that answers me, and even when I’m already silent!”

I tried to shout again:

- Come here!

“Over here!” - responded in the forest.

- Mom, maybe someone is still teasing there? - I asked hesitantly. - Let's go have a look.

- How stupid! - Mom laughed. “Well, let’s go if you want, but we won’t find anyone.”

I took my mother’s hand just in case: “Who knows what kind of echo this is!” - and we walked along the path deep into the forest. Occasionally I shouted:

- Are you here?

“Here!” - answered in front.

We crossed a forest ravine and emerged into a light birch forest. It wasn't scary at all.

I let go of my mother’s hand and ran forward.

And suddenly I saw an “echo”. It was sitting on a stump with its back to me. Everything is gray, wearing a gray shaggy hat, like a goblin from a picture from a fairy tale. I screamed and rushed back to my mother:

- Mom, mom, there’s an echo sitting on a tree stump!

- Why are you talking nonsense! - Mom got angry.

She took my hand and bravely walked forward.

-Will it not touch us? - I asked.

“Don’t be stupid, please,” my mother answered.

We entered the clearing.

- Out, out! - I whispered.

- Yes, it’s Grandpa Kuzma who grazes the cows!

—- Grandfather, I thought you were an echo! - I shouted, running up to the old man.

- Echo? - he was surprised, lowering the wooden pity pipe, which he was whittling with a knife. - Echo, my dear, is not a person. This is the voice of the forest.

- Yes. You shout in the forest, and he will answer you. Every tree, every bush gives an echo. Listen to how we talk to them.

Grandfather raised his pity pipe and began to play tenderly and drawlingly. He played as if he was humming some sad song. And somewhere far, far away in the forest, another similar voice echoed him.

Mom came up and sat down on a nearby tree stump. Grandfather finished playing, and the echo also finished.

—- So, son, have you heard me calling to the forest now? - said the old man. — Echo is the very soul of the forest. Whatever a bird whistles, whatever an animal screams, it will tell you everything, it will not hide anything.

So I didn’t understand then what an echo was. But on the other hand, I fell in love with it for the rest of my life, loved it like the mysterious voice of the forest, the song of pity, like an old children’s fairy tale.

And now, many, many years later, as soon as I hear an echo in the forest, I immediately remember: a sunny day, birches, a clearing and in the middle of it, on an old stump, something shaggy, gray. Maybe this is our village shepherd sitting, or maybe not a shepherd, but a fairy-tale grandfather-goblin.

He sits on a tree stump, whittling a maple pipe. And then he will play it in the quiet evening hour, when the trees, grass and flowers fall asleep and the horned moon slowly emerges from behind the forest and the summer night sets in.

Georgy Skrebitsky “Ivanovich the Cat”

There lived in our house a huge fat cat - Ivanovich: lazy, clumsy. He ate or slept all day long. Sometimes he would climb onto a warm bed, curl up in a ball and fall asleep. In a dream, it will spread its paws, stretch itself out, and hang its tail down. Because of this tail, Ivanovich often got it from our yard puppy Bobka. He was a very mischievous puppy. As soon as the door to the house is opened, he will rush into the rooms straight to Ivanovich. He will grab him by the tail with his teeth, drag him to the floor and carry him like a sack. The floor is smooth, slippery, Ivanovich will roll on it as if on ice. If you're awake, you won't be able to figure out what's going on right away. Then he will come to his senses, jump up, hit Bobka in the face with his paw, and go back to sleep on the bed.

Ivanovich loved to lie down so that he was both warm and soft. Either he will lie down on his mother’s pillow, or he will climb under the blanket. And one day I did this. Mom kneaded the dough in a tub and put it on the stove. To make it rise better, I covered it with a still warm scarf. Two hours passed. Mom went to see if the dough was rising well. He looks, and in the tub, curled up like on a feather bed, Ivanovich is sleeping. I crushed all the dough and got all dirty myself. So we were left without pies. And Ivanovich had to be washed.

Mom poured warm water into a basin, put the cat in it and began to wash it. Mom washes, but he doesn’t get angry - he purrs and sings songs. They washed him, dried him and put him back to sleep on the stove.

Ivanovich was so lazy that he didn’t even catch mice. Sometimes a mouse scratches somewhere nearby, but he doesn’t pay attention to it.

One day my mother called me into the kitchen: “Look what your cat is doing!” I look - Ivanovich is stretched out on the floor and basking in the sun, and next to him a whole brood of mice is walking: very tiny ones, running around the floor, collecting bread crumbs, and Ivanovich seems to be grazing them - looking and squinting his eyes from the sun. Mom even threw up her hands:

- What is this being done?

And I say:

- Like what? Can't you see? Ivanovich is guarding the mice. Probably, the mother mouse asked to look after the children, otherwise you never know what could happen without her.

But sometimes Ivanovich liked to hunt for fun. Across the yard from our house there was a grain barn; there were a lot of rats in it. Ivanovich found out about this and went hunting one afternoon.

We were sitting by the window, and suddenly we saw Ivanovich running across the yard with a huge rat in his mouth. He jumped out the window - straight into his mother's room. He lay down in the middle of the floor, released the rat, and looked at his mother: “Here, they say, what kind of hunter I am!”

Mom screamed, jumped up on a chair, the rat scurried under the closet, and Ivanovich sat and sat and went to sleep.

Since then, Ivanovich has been gone. In the morning he will get up, wash his face with his paw, have breakfast and go to the barn to hunt. Not a minute will pass, and he is in a hurry home, dragging the rat. He will bring you into the room and let you out. Then we got along so well: when he goes hunting, now we lock all the doors and windows. Ivanovich scolds the rat around the yard and lets it go, and it runs back into the barn. Or, it happened, he would strangle a rat and let him play with it: he would throw it up, catch it with his paws, or he would put it in front of him and admire it.

One day he was playing like this - suddenly two crows came out of nowhere. They sat down nearby and began jumping and dancing around Ivanovich. They want to take the rat away from him - and it’s scary. They galloped and galloped, then one of them grabbed Ivanovich’s tail from behind with her beak! He turned head over heels and followed the crow, and the second one picked up the rat - and goodbye! So Ivanovich was left with nothing.

However, although Ivanovich sometimes caught rats, he never ate them. But he really loved to eat fresh fish. When I come back from fishing in the summer, I just put the bucket on the bench, and he’s right there. He will sit next to you, put his paw in the bucket, straight into the water, and fumble around there. He will hook a fish with his paw, throw it on the bench and eat it.

Ivanovich even got into the habit of stealing fish from the aquarium. Once I put the aquarium on the floor to change the water, and I went to the kitchen to get water. I come back, I look and can’t believe my eyes: at the aquarium, Ivanovich stood up on his hind legs, and threw his front legs into the water and caught fish, as if from a bucket. I was then missing three fish.

From that day on, Ivanovich was simply in trouble: he never left the aquarium. I had to cover the top with glass. And if you forget, now he’ll pull out two or three fish. We didn’t know how to wean him off this.

But, fortunately for us, Ivanovich himself weaned himself very soon.

One day I brought crayfish from the river instead of fish in a bucket and put it on the bench, as always. Ivanovich immediately came running and pawed right into the bucket. Yes, suddenly he screams. We look - the crayfish grabbed the paw with its claws, and after it - a second one, and after the second - a third... Everyone is dragging their paws out of the bucket, moving their mustaches and clicking their claws. Here Ivanovich’s eyes widened in fear, his fur stood on end: “What kind of fish is this?” He shook his paw, and all the crayfish fell to the floor, and Ivanovich himself tailed like a pipe - and marched out the window. After that, he didn’t even come close to the bucket and stopped climbing into the aquarium. I was so scared!

In addition to fish, we had a lot of different animals in our house: birds, guinea pigs, hedgehogs, bunnies... But Ivanovich never touched anyone. He was a very kind cat and was friends with all animals. Only at first Ivanovich could not get along with the hedgehog.

I brought this hedgehog from the forest and put it on the floor in the room. The hedgehog first lay curled up in a ball, and then turned around and ran around the room. Ivanovich became very interested in the animal. He approached him in a friendly manner and wanted to sniff him. But the hedgehog, apparently, did not understand Ivanovich’s good intentions; he spread his thorns, jumped up and stabbed Ivanovich very painfully in the nose.

After this, Ivanovich began to stubbornly avoid the hedgehog. As soon as he crawled out from under the closet, Ivanovich hurriedly jumped onto a chair or onto the window and did not want to go down.

But one day after dinner, mom poured soup into a saucer for Ivanovich and put him on the rug. The cat sat down more comfortably near the saucer and began to lap. Suddenly we see a hedgehog crawling out from under the closet. He got out, pulled his nose and went straight to the saucer. He came over and also started eating. But Ivanovich doesn’t run away - apparently he’s hungry, he glances sideways at the hedgehog, but he’s in a hurry, drinking. So the two of them lapped up the entire saucer.

From that day on, mom began to feed them together every time. And how well they adapted to it! All mother has to do is hit the ladle against the saucer, and they are already running. They sit next to each other and eat. The hedgehog will stretch out its muzzle, add some thorns, and look so smooth. Ivanovich stopped being afraid of him completely, and so they became friends.

Everyone loved Ivanovich very much for his good disposition. It seemed to us that in his character and intelligence he was more like a dog than a cat. He ran after us like a dog: we go to the garden - and he follows us, mother goes to the store - and he runs after her. And when we return in the evening from the river or from the city garden, Ivanovich is already sitting on a bench near the house, as if he was waiting for us. As soon as he sees me or Seryozha, he will immediately run up, start purring, rub himself against our legs, and after us he will quickly hurry home.

The house where we lived stood on the very edge of the town. We lived in it for several years, and then moved to another one, on the same street.

When we moved, we were very afraid that Ivanovich would not get along in new apartment and will run away to the old place. But our fears turned out to be completely unfounded. Finding himself in an unfamiliar room, Ivanovich began to examine and sniff everything, until he finally reached his mother’s bed. At this point, apparently, he immediately felt that everything was in order, jumped onto the bed and lay down. And when there was a clatter of knives and forks in the next room, Ivanovich immediately rushed to the table and sat down, as usual, next to his mother. That same day he looked around the new yard and garden, even sat on a bench in front of the house. But he never left for the old apartment. This means that it is not always true when they say that a dog is faithful to people, and a cat to its home. For Ivanovich it turned out quite the opposite.

Konstantin Paustovsky “My House”

The small house where I live in Meshchera deserves a description. This is a former bathhouse, a log hut covered with gray planks. The house is located in a dense garden, but for some reason it is fenced off from the garden by a high palisade. This stockade is a trap for village cats who love fish. Every time I return from fishing, cats of all stripes - red, black, gray and white with tan - lay siege to the house. They scurry around, sit on the fence, on roofs, on old apple trees, howl at each other and wait for the evening. They all look, without looking away, at the kukan with fish - it is suspended from the branch of an old apple tree in such a way that it is almost impossible to get it.

In the evening, the cats carefully climb over the palisade and gather under the kukan. They rise on their hind legs, and make swift and deft swings with their front legs, trying to catch the kukan. From a distance it looks like the cats are playing volleyball. Then some impudent cat jumps up, grabs the fish with a death grip, hangs on it, swings and tries to tear the fish off. The rest of the cats hit each other's whiskered faces out of frustration. It ends with me leaving the bathhouse with a lantern. The cats, taken by surprise, rush to the stockade, but do not have time to climb over it, but squeeze between the stakes and get stuck. Then they lay back their ears, close their eyes and begin to scream desperately, begging for mercy.

In autumn, the whole house is covered with leaves, and in two small rooms it becomes light, like in a flying garden.

The stoves are crackling, there is a smell of apples and cleanly washed floors. The tits sit on the branches, pour glass balls in their throats, ring, crackle and look at the windowsill, where a piece of black bread lies.

I rarely spend the night in the house. I spend most nights at the lakes, and when I stay at home, I sleep in an old gazebo in the back of the garden. It is overgrown with wild grapes. In the mornings the sun hits it through the purple, lilac, green and lemon foliage, and it always seems to me that I wake up inside a lit tree. The sparrows look into the gazebo with surprise. They are deadly busy for hours. They tick on a round table dug into the ground. The sparrows approach them, listen to the ticking with one ear or the other, and then peck the clock hard at the dial.

It’s especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when the slow, sheer rain is making a low noise in the garden.

The cool air barely moves the candle tongue. Angular shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. Moth, looking like a lump of gray raw silk, sits on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page. It smells like rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.

At dawn I wake up. The fog rustles in the garden. Leaves are falling in the fog. I pull a bucket of water out of the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd’s horn - he is still singing far away, right at the outskirts.

I go to the empty bathhouse and boil tea. A cricket starts its song on the stove. He sings very loudly and does not pay attention to my steps or the clinking of cups.

It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. The chain dog Divny sleeps at the gate. He hits the ground with his tail, but does not raise his head. Marvelous has long been accustomed to my leaving at dawn. He just yawns after me and sighs noisily. I'm sailing in the fog. The East is turning pink. The smell of smoke from rural stoves can no longer be heard. All that remains is the silence of the water and the thickets of centuries-old willows.

Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lost in this huge world of fragrant foliage, grass, autumn withering, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this confusion as happiness.

Konstantin Paustovsky “Farewell to Summer”

For several days the cold rain poured incessantly. A wet wind rustled in the garden. At four o'clock in the afternoon we were already lighting the kerosene lamps, and it involuntarily seemed that summer was over forever and the earth was moving further and further into the dull fogs, into the uncomfortable darkness and cold.

It was the end of November - the saddest time in the village. The cat slept all day, curled up on an old chair, and shuddered in his sleep when dark water rushed through the windows.

The roads were washed away. The river carried yellowish foam, similar to a shot down squirrel. The last birds hid under the eaves, and for more than a week now no one has visited us: neither grandfather Mitri, nor Vanya Malyavin, nor the forester.

It was best in the evenings. We lit the stoves. The fire was noisy, crimson reflections trembled on the log walls and on the old engraving - a portrait of the artist Bryullov. Leaning back in his chair, he looked at us and, it seemed, just like us, having put the book aside, he was thinking about what he had read and listening to the hum of the rain on the plank roof.

The lamps burned brightly, and the disabled copper samovar sang and sang his simple song. As soon as he was brought into the room, it immediately became cozy - perhaps because the glass was fogged up and the lonely birch branch that knocked on the window day and night was not visible.

After tea we sat by the stove and read. On such evenings, the most pleasant thing was to read the very long and touching novels of Charles Dickens or leaf through the heavy volumes of the magazines “Niva” and “Picturesque Review” from the old years.

At night, Funtik, a small red dachshund, often cried in his sleep. I had to get up and wrap him in a warm woolen rag. Funtik thanked him in his sleep, carefully licked his hand and, sighing, fell asleep. The darkness rustled behind the walls with the splash of rain and blows of the wind, and it was scary to think about those who might have been overtaken by this stormy night in the impenetrable forests.

One night I woke up with a strange sensation. It seemed to me that I had gone deaf in my sleep. I lay with my eyes closed, listened for a long time and finally realized that I was not deaf, but that there was simply an extraordinary silence outside the walls of the house. This kind of silence is called “dead”. The rain died, the wind died, the noisy, restless garden died. You could only hear the cat snoring in its sleep.

I opened my eyes. White and even light filled the room. I got up and went to the window - everything was snowy and silent behind the glass. In the foggy sky, a lonely moon stood at a dizzying height, and a yellowish circle shimmered around it.

When did the first snow fall? I approached the walkers. It was so light that the arrows showed clearly. They showed two o'clock.

I fell asleep at midnight. This means that in two hours the earth changed so unusually, in two short hours the fields, forests and gardens were bewitched by the cold.

Through the window I saw a large gray bird land on a maple branch in the garden. The branch swayed and snow fell from it. The bird slowly rose and flew away, and the snow kept falling like glass rain falling from a Christmas tree. Then everything became quiet again.

Reuben woke up. He looked outside the window for a long time, sighed and said:

— The first snow suits the earth very well.

The earth was elegant, looking like a shy bride.

And in the morning everything crunched around: frozen roads, leaves on the porch, black nettle stems sticking out from under the snow.

Grandfather Mitri came to visit for tea and congratulated him on his first trip.

“So the earth was washed,” he said, “with snow water from a silver trough.”

- Where did you get this, Mitri, such words? - Reuben asked.

- Is there anything wrong? - the grandfather grinned. “My mother, the deceased, told me that in ancient times, beauties washed themselves with the first snow from a silver jug ​​and therefore their beauty never faded. This happened even before Tsar Peter, my dear, when robbers ruined merchants in the local forests.

It was difficult to stay at home on the first winter day. We went to the forest lakes, and my grandfather accompanied us to the edge of the forest. He also wanted to visit the lakes, but “the ache in his bones did not let him go.”

It was solemn, light and quiet in the forests.

The day seemed to be dozing. Lonely snowflakes occasionally fell from the cloudy high sky. We carefully breathed on them, and they turned into pure drops of water, then became cloudy, froze and rolled to the ground like beads.

We wandered through the forests until dusk, going around familiar places. Flocks of bullfinches sat, ruffled, on rowan trees covered with snow.

We picked several bunches of red rowan, caught by the frost - this was the last memory of summer, of autumn.

On the small lake - it was called Larin's Pond - there was always a lot of duckweed floating around. Now the water in the lake was very black and transparent - all the duckweed had sank to the bottom by winter.

A glass strip of ice has grown along the coast. The ice was so transparent that even close up it was difficult to notice. I saw a flock of rafts in the water near the shore and threw a small stone at them. The stone fell on the ice, rang, the rafts, flashing with scales, darted into the depths, and a white grainy trace of the impact remained on the ice. That’s the only reason we guessed that a layer of ice had already formed near the shore. We broke off individual pieces of ice with our hands. They crunched and left a mixed smell of snow and lingonberries on your fingers.

Here and there in the clearings birds flew and squeaked pitifully, the sky overhead was very light, white, and towards the horizon it thickened, and its color resembled lead, from there came slow, snowy clouds.

The forests became increasingly gloomy, quieter, and finally thick snow began to fall. It melted in the black water of the lake, tickled my face, and powdered the forest with gray smoke.

Winter began to rule the earth, but we knew that under the loose snow, if you rake it with your hands, you could still find fresh forest flowers, we knew that the fire would always crackle in the stoves, that tits remained with us to winter, and winter seemed the same to us beautiful like summer.

Dmitry Mamin-Sibiryak “Emelya the Hunter”

Far, far away, in the northern part of the Ural Mountains, hidden in the impenetrable forest wilderness is the village of Tychki. There are only eleven courtyards in it, actually ten, because the eleventh hut is completely separate, but right next to the forest. Around the village, an evergreen coniferous forest rises like a jagged wall. From behind the tops of spruce and fir trees you can see several mountains, which seem to have been deliberately surrounded by Tychki on all sides with huge bluish-gray ramparts. Closest to Tychky is the humpbacked Ruchevaya Mountain, with its gray hairy peak, which in cloudy weather is completely hidden in muddy, gray clouds. Many springs and streams run down from Ruchevoy Mountain. One such stream merrily rolls towards Tychky, winter and summer, feeding everyone with icy water, clear as a tear.

The huts in Tychki were built without any plan, as anyone wanted. Two huts stand above the river itself, one is on a steep mountain slope, and the rest are scattered along the bank like sheep. In Tychki there is not even a street, and between the huts there is a well-worn path. Yes, the Tychkovsky peasants probably don’t even need a street at all, because there is nothing to ride on it: in Tychki no one has a single cart. In summer, this village is surrounded by impassable swamps, swamps and forest slums, so that it is barely accessible on foot only along narrow forest paths, and even then not always. In bad weather, mountain rivers play strongly, and it often happens that Tychkovo hunters wait three days for the water to subside from them.

All Tychkovsky men are dedicated hunters. In summer and winter, they almost never leave the forest, fortunately it’s just a stone’s throw away. Every season brings with it certain prey: in winter they kill bears, martens, wolves, and foxes; in autumn - squirrel; in spring - wild goats; in the summer - all kinds of birds. In short, the work is hard and often dangerous all year round.

In that hut that stands right next to the forest, he lives old hunter Emelya with her little grandson Grishutka. Emelya’s hut has completely grown into the ground and looks at the light of God with just one window; the roof on the hut had long since rotted, all that was left of the chimney were fallen bricks. There was no fence, no gate, no barn - there was nothing at Emelina’s hut. Only under the porch made of unhewn logs does the hungry Lysko, one of the best hunting dogs in Tychki, howl at night. Before each hunt, Emelya starves the unfortunate Lysk for three days so that he can better look for game and track down every animal.

“Dedko... and Dedko!..” little Grishutka asked with difficulty one evening. — Do deer walk with calves now?

“With the calves, Grishuk,” Emelya answered, braiding new bast shoes.

- If only I could get a calf, grandpa... Eh?

- Wait, we’ll get it... The heat has arrived, the deer with their calves will be hiding from the gadflies in the thicket, then I’ll get you a calf, Grishuk!

The boy did not answer, but only sighed heavily. Grishutka was only six years old, and he was now lying for the second month on a wide wooden bench under a warm reindeer skin. The boy caught a cold in the spring, when the snow was melting, and still could not get better. His dark face turned pale and lengthened, his eyes became larger, his nose became sharper. Emelya saw how his grandson was melting by leaps and bounds, but did not know how to help the grief. He gave him some kind of herb to drink, took him to the bathhouse twice, but the patient did not feel any better. The boy didn't eat anything. He chews a crust of black bread - and that’s all. Salted goat meat remained from the spring; but Grishuk could not even look at her.

“Look for what you want: a little calf...” thought old Emelya, picking at his bast shoe. “We need to get it now...”

Emela was about seventy years old: gray-haired, hunched over, thin, with long arms. Emelya’s fingers barely straightened, as if they were wooden branches. But he still walked cheerfully and got something by hunting. Only now the old man’s eyes began to change greatly, especially in winter, when the snow sparkles and glitters all around like diamond dust. Because of Emelin’s eyes, the chimney fell apart and the roof rotted, and he himself often sits in his hut when others are in the forest.

It’s time for the old man to retire, to a warm stove, but there’s no one to replace him, and then Grishutka found himself in our arms, we need to take care of him... Grishutka’s father died three years ago from a fever, his mother was eaten by wolves when she was with little Grishutka on a winter evening was returning from the village to her hut. The child was saved by some miracle. The mother, while the wolves were gnawing at her legs, covered the child with her body, and Grishutka remained alive.

The old grandfather had to raise his granddaughter, and then the disease happened. Misfortune never comes alone...

stood last days June, the hottest time in Tychki. Only old and small ones remained at home. Hunters have long scattered through the forest after deer. In Emelya’s hut, poor Lysko had been howling from hunger for three days now, like a wolf in winter.

“Apparently Emelya is going hunting,” the women in the village said.

It was true. Indeed, Emelya soon left his hut with a flintlock rifle in his hand, untied Lysk and headed towards the forest. He was wearing new bast shoes, a knapsack with bread on his shoulders, a torn caftan and a warm reindeer hat on his head. The old man had not worn a hat for a long time, and winter and summer wore his deer hat, which perfectly protected his bald head from the winter cold and from the summer heat.

“Well, Grishuk, get better without me...” Emelya said to his grandson goodbye. “Old woman Malanya will look after you while I go get the calf.”

- Will you bring the calf, grandpa?

“I’ll bring it,” he said.

- Yellow?

- Yellow...

- Well, I’ll wait for you... Be careful, don’t miss when you shoot...

Emelya had been planning to go after the reindeer for a long time, but he still regretted leaving his grandson alone, but now he seemed to be better, and the old man decided to try his luck. And old Malanya will look after the boy - it’s still better than lying alone in a hut.

Emelya felt at home in the forest. And how could he not know this forest when he spent his whole life wandering through it with a gun and a dog. All the paths, all the signs - the old man knew everything for a hundred miles around. And now, at the end of June, it was especially good in the forest: the grass was beautifully full of blossoming flowers, the wonderful aroma of fragrant herbs was in the air, and the gentle summer sun looked from the sky, bathing the forest, the grass, and the river babbling in the sedge with bright light, and distant mountains. Yes, it was wonderful and good all around, and Emelya stopped more than once to take a breath and look back. The path along which he walked snaked up the mountain, passing large stones and steep ledges. A large forest had been cut down, and young birch trees, honeysuckle bushes huddled near the road, and rowan trees spread out like a green tent. Here and there there were dense copses of young spruce trees, which stood like a green brush on the sides of the road and cheerfully puffed up their pawed and shaggy branches. In one place, from half the mountain, there was a wide view of the distant mountains and Tychki. The village was completely hidden at the bottom of a deep mountain basin, and the peasant huts seemed like black dots from here. Emelya, shielding his eyes from the sun, looked at his hut for a long time and thought about his granddaughter.

“Well, Lysko, look...,” said Emelya when they descended from the mountain and turned off the path into a dense dense spruce forest.

Lysk did not need to repeat the order. He clearly knew his business and, burying his sharp muzzle in the ground, disappeared into the dense green thicket. Only for a moment did we glimpse his back with yellow spots.

The hunt has begun.

Huge spruces rose high to the sky with their sharp tops. Shaggy branches intertwined with each other, forming an impenetrable dark vault above the hunter’s head, through which only here and there a ray of sunlight would glance cheerfully and burn yellowish moss or a wide leaf of fern like a golden spot. Grass does not grow in such a forest, and Emelya walked on the soft yellowish moss, as if on a carpet.

The hunter wandered through this forest for several hours. Lysko seemed to have sunk into the water. Only occasionally will a branch crunch under your foot or a spotted woodpecker fly over. Emelya carefully examined everything around: was there any trace somewhere, had the deer broken a branch with its antlers, had a cloven hoof imprinted on the moss, had the grass on the hummocks been eaten away. It's starting to get dark. The old man felt tired. It was necessary to think about lodging for the night. “Probably the other hunters scared the deer,” thought Emelya. But then Lysk’s faint squeal was heard, and branches crackled ahead. Emelya leaned against the spruce trunk and waited.

It was a deer. A real ten-horned deer, the noblest of forest animals. There he put his branched horns to his very back and listens attentively, sniffing the air, so that the next minute he will disappear like lightning into the green thicket. Old Emelya saw a deer, but it was too far from him to reach it with a bullet. Lysko lies in the thicket and does not dare to breathe, waiting for a shot; he hears the deer, feels its smell... Then a shot rang out, and the deer rushed forward like an arrow. Emelya missed, and Lysko howled from the hunger that was taking him away. The poor dog has already smelled the roasted venison, seen the delicious bone that the owner will throw to him, but instead he has to go to bed with a hungry belly. A very bad story...

“Well, let him take a walk,” Emelya reasoned out loud when he sat by the fire in the evening under a thick hundred-year-old spruce tree. - We need to get a calf, Lysko... Do you hear?

The dog just wagged its tail pitifully, placing its sharp muzzle between its front paws. Today she received one dry crust, which Emelya threw to her.

Emelya wandered through the forest with Lysk for three days and it was all in vain: he didn’t come across a deer with a calf. The old man felt that he was exhausted, but he did not dare to return home empty-handed. Lysko also became depressed and completely emaciated, although he managed to intercept a couple of young hares.

We had to spend the night in the forest near the fire for the third night. But even in his dreams, old Emelya kept seeing the yellow calf that Grishuk asked him for; The old man tracked his prey for a long time, took aim, but every time the deer ran away from under his nose. Lysko, too, probably raved about deer, because several times in his sleep he squealed and began to bark dully.

Only on the fourth day, when both the hunter and the dog were completely exhausted, they completely accidentally attacked the trail of a deer with a calf. It was in a thick spruce thicket on the slope of a mountain. First of all, Lysko found the place where the deer had spent the night, and then he sniffed out the tangled trail in the grass.

“A uterus with a calf,” thought Emelya, looking at the traces of large and small hooves in the grass. “I was here this morning... Lysko, look, my dear!”

The day was hot. The sun was beating down mercilessly. The dog sniffed the bushes and grass with its tongue hanging out; Emelya could hardly drag his feet. But then the familiar crackling and rustling... Lysko fell on the grass and did not move. The words of her granddaughter ring in Emelya’s ears: “Dedko, get a calf... And be sure to have a yellow one.” There's the queen... It was a magnificent doe. He stood at the edge of the forest and fearfully looked straight at Emelya. A bunch of buzzing insects circled above the deer and made him flinch.

“No, you won’t deceive me...” thought Emelya, crawling out of his ambush.

The deer had long sensed the hunter, but boldly followed his movements.

“This mother is taking me away from the calf,” thought Emelya, crawling closer and closer.

When the old man wanted to take aim at the deer, he carefully ran a few yards further and stopped again. Emelya crawled up again with his rifle. Again there was a slow creep, and again the deer disappeared as soon as Emelya wanted to shoot.

“You won’t get away from the calf,” Emelya whispered, patiently tracking the animal for several hours.

This struggle between man and animal continued until the evening. The noble animal risked its life ten times, trying to take the hunter away from the hidden fawn; old Emelya was both angry and surprised at the courage of his victim. After all, she still won’t leave him... How many times did he have to kill his mother, who sacrificed herself in this way. Lysko, like a shadow, crawled behind the owner, and when he completely lost sight of the deer, he carefully poked him with his hot nose. The old man looked around and sat down. Ten fathoms from him, under a honeysuckle bush, stood the same yellow calf that he had been following for three whole days. It was a very pretty fawn, only a few weeks old, with yellow fluff and thin legs, its beautiful head was thrown back, and it stretched its thin neck forward when it tried to grab a higher branch. The hunter, with a sinking heart, cocked his rifle and aimed at the head of a small, defenseless animal...

One more moment, and the little deer would have rolled across the grass with a plaintive death cry; but it was at that moment that the old hunter remembered with what heroism his mother defended the calf, remembered how his mother Grishutka saved her son from the wolves with her life. It was as if something broke in old Emelya’s chest, and he lowered the gun. The fawn continued to walk around the bush, plucking leaves and listening to the slightest rustle. Emelya quickly stood up and whistled - the small animal disappeared into the bushes with the speed of lightning.

“Look, what a runner...” the old man said, smiling thoughtfully. - I saw only him: like an arrow... After all, Lysko, our fawn ran away? Well, he, the runner, still needs to grow up... Oh, how nimble you are!..

The old man stood in one place for a long time and kept smiling, remembering the runner.

The next day Emelya approached his hut.

- And... grandfather, did you bring the calf? - Grisha greeted him, waiting impatiently for the old man all the time.

- No, Grishuk... I saw him...

- Yellow?

- He’s yellow, but his face is black. He stands under a bush and plucks leaves... I took aim...

- And missed?

- No, Grishuk: I felt sorry for the small animal... I felt sorry for the uterus... As soon as I whistled, and he, a calf, goaded into the thicket - that’s all I saw. He ran away, shot like that...

The old man told the boy for a long time how he searched for the calf in the forest for three days and how it ran away from him. The boy listened and laughed merrily with his old grandfather.

“And I brought you a wood grouse, Grishuk,” added Emelya, finishing the story. - The wolves would have eaten this anyway.

The capercaillie was plucked and then ended up in a pot. The sick boy ate the wood grouse stew with pleasure and, falling asleep, asked the old man several times:

- So he ran away, little deer?

- He ran away, Grishuk...

- Yellow?

- All yellow, only a black muzzle and hooves.

The boy fell asleep and all night saw a little yellow fawn walking happily through the forest with his mother; and the old man slept on the stove and also smiled in his sleep.

Victor Astafiev “Grandma with raspberries”

At the hundred and first kilometer, a crowd of berry pickers storms the Komarikhinskaya - Tyoplaya Gora train. The train stops here for one minute. And there are tons of berry fields, and everyone has dishes: pots, buckets, baskets, cans. And all the dishes are full. There are raspberries in the Urals - you won’t have too many.

The people are noisy, worried, dishes are rattling and cracking - the train stops for only a minute.

But if the train had stopped for half an hour, there would still have been crush and panic. This is how our passengers are designed - everyone wants to get into the carriage as quickly as possible and then grumble: “What’s it worth? What are you waiting for? Workers!”

There is especially a lot of hubbub and bustle in one carriage. About thirty children are trying to fit into the narrow door of the vestibule, and an old woman is scurrying among them. She “cuts the masses” with her sharp shoulder and reaches the footrest, clinging to it. One of the guys grabs her under the arms, trying to pull her upstairs. The grandmother jumps up like a cockerel, perches on the step, and at this time an accident occurs. What an accident - a tragedy! A real tragedy. A birch bark tube, tied on the chest with a handkerchief, overturns, and raspberries spill out of it - every single berry.

Tues is hanging on his chest, but upside down. The berries rolled on the gravel, along the rails, along the running board. The grandmother became numb and clutched her heart. The driver, who had already overstayed his stop by three minutes, sounded his horn and the train started moving. The last berry pickers jumped onto the step, hitting the grandmother with the dishes. She looked in shock at the floating red spot of raspberry splashed on the white gravel, and, perking up, shouted:

- Stop! Dear ones, wait! I'll collect it!..

But the train had already picked up speed. A red spot flashed like lightning and went out behind the last carriage. The conductor said sympathetically:

- What is there to collect! What fell from the cart... Grandma, you should have walked into the carriage and not hung on the step.

So, with a suit dangling from her chest, the grandmother appeared in the carriage. The shock still hadn't left her face. Dry, wrinkled lips trembled and trembled, the hands that had worked so hard and deftly that day, the hands of the old peasant woman and the berry farmer, also trembled.

They hastily made room for her - and not just a seat, but the entire bench - by quiet schoolchildren, apparently the whole class had gone out to pick berries. The grandmother sat down silently, noticed the empty container, tore the container along with the old scarf over her head and angrily pushed it under the seat with her heel.

The grandmother sits alone on the entire bench and motionlessly looks at the empty lantern bouncing on the wall. The door of the lantern opens and closes. There is no candle in the lantern. And the lantern is no longer needed. This train has been illuminated by electricity for a long time, but they simply forgot to remove the lantern, and so it remained an orphan, and its door was hanging loose. The lantern is empty. Empty in the room. Grandma’s soul is empty. A. after all, just an hour ago she was completely happy. For once, I went to pick berries, climbed through thickets and forest rubble with great effort, quickly, with dexterity, picked raspberries and boasted to the children who met in the forest:

“I used to be agile! Oh, she's agile! I picked two buckets of raspberries a day, and scooped up more blueberries or lingonberries with a scoop. I won’t see white light if I’m lying,” the grandmother assured the amazed children. And - once again, imperceptibly, under the tongue, she picked raspberries from the bushes. Things were going well for her, and the convenient old vessel was quickly filling up.

The grandmother is clever and surprisingly talkative. She managed to tell the guys that she was not a lonely person, she survived the entire birth. She shed tears, remembering her grandson Yurochka, who died in the war, because he was a dashing guy and rushed onto a tank, and immediately, wiping away the tears from her sparse eyelashes with a handkerchief, she began to say:

Raspberries in the garden

Grew-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa...

And she even waved her hand smoothly. There must have been a sociable grandmother once upon a time. I walked and sang in my lifetime...

And now she’s silent, withdrawn. Grandma's grief. The schoolchildren offered her help - they wanted to take the bag and carry it into the carriage - but she didn’t give it. “I myself, little ones, somehow, blessed myself, I’m still agile, wow, agile!”

So much for being agile! So much for you! There were raspberries - and there are no raspberries.

At the Kommuna Ridge crossing, three fishermen pile into the carriage. They place bundles of fishing rods with landing nets in the corner, hang duffel bags on ancient cast-iron hooks and sit down next to the grandmother, since only next to her there are free seats.

Having settled down, they immediately burst out a song to the tune of “The Nightingale, the Nightingale is a Little Bird”:

Kalino, Lyamino, Levshino!

Komarikha and Tyoplaya Gora!..

These fishermen themselves composed a song from the names of the local stations, and they apparently liked the song. They repeated it over and over again. The grandmother glanced sideways at the fishermen with annoyance. A young fisherman in a tattered straw hat shouted to the grandmother:

- Pull up, grandma!

The grandmother spat heartily, turned away and began to look out the window. One of the schoolchildren moved closer to the fisherman and whispered something in his ear.

- Oh well! - the fisherman was surprised and turned to the grandmother, who was still looking out the window aloofly and without interest: - How did this happen to you, grandma?! How awkward you are!

And then the grandmother could not stand it, she jumped up:

- Awkward?! You are very clever! I used to know what I was like! I wounded...” She shook her withered fist in front of the fisherman and just as suddenly sank as she became ruffled.

The fisherman cleared his throat awkwardly. His fellow travelers also cleared their throats and stopped singing. The one in the hat thought and thought and, having thought about something, slapped himself on the forehead as if he had killed a mosquito, moved around the carriage, looking into the dishes of the guys:

- Well, show me the trophies! Wow, well done! I picked a bunch of raspberries, well done!..” he praised the freckled girl in ski pants. - And you and your mop!.. And you!.. Well done! Well done! You know what, guys,” the fisherman squinted slyly, meaningfully, “move closer, and I’ll tell you something very interesting in your ear.”

The schoolchildren reached out to the fisherman. He whispered something to them, winking at the grandmother, and the guys’ faces lit up.

Everything in the carriage came to life at once. The schoolchildren began to fuss and talk. Grandma's cup was taken out from under the bench. The fisherman put him at his feet and gave the command:

- Come on! Rash a handful each. Don't make yourself poor, but grandma will be happy!

And the raspberries flowed into the tub, handfuls at a time, two at a time. The girl in ski pants removed the “stack” from her bucket.

Grandma protested:

- I won’t take someone else’s! I've never used someone else's!

- Shut up, grandma! — the fisherman reasoned with her. - What kind of alien thing is this? These guys are all your grandchildren. Good guys. Only their guess is still weak. Rash, boys, rash, don’t be shy!

And when the container was filled to the top, the fisherman solemnly placed it on his grandmother’s lap.

She hugged the vessel with her hands and, sniffing her nose, on which a tear danced, kept repeating:

- Yes, dear, yes, dear!.. But why is this? Why do I need so much? Yes, you are my killer whales!..

Tues was full, even with a “shock”. The fishermen burst into song again. The schoolchildren also picked it up:

Eh, Kalino, Lyamino, Levshino!

Komarikha and Tyoplaya Gora!..

The train was flying towards the city. The electric locomotive barked mischievously, as if shouting: “Get loose, people! I’m bringing grandma with raspberries!” The wheels of the carriages echoed: “Grandma! Grandma! With raspberries! With raspberries! I'm taking you! I'm taking you!"

And the grandmother sat, clutching a bag of berries to her chest, listened to a silly song and shook her head with a smile:

- And they’ll come up with it! They'll come up with an idea, the devils! And what kind of Eastern-speaking people have gone!..

Victor Astafiev "Belogrudka"

The village of Vereino is located on a mountain. There are two lakes under the mountain, and on their shores, an echo of a large village, there is a small village of three houses - Zuyat.

Between Zuyatami and Vereino there is a huge steep slope, visible many dozens of miles away as a dark humpbacked island. This whole slope is so overgrown with dense forest that people almost never bother there. And how do you get around? As soon as you take a few steps away from the clover field, which is on the mountain, you will immediately roll head over heels down, hitting the dead wood lying crosswise, covered with moss, elderberry and raspberries.

It’s quiet on the slope, damp and twilight. Spruce and fir support reliably bury their inhabitants - birds, badgers, squirrels, stoats - from evil eyes and raking hands. The hazel grouse and capercaillie live here, they are very cunning and cautious.

And one day, perhaps one of the most secretive animals - the white-breasted marten - settled in the thicket of the slope. She lived alone for two or three summers, occasionally appearing at the edge of the forest. The white breast trembled with sensitive nostrils, caught the nasty smells of the village and, if a person approached, pierced like a bullet into the wilderness of the forest.

In the third or fourth summer, Belogrudka gave birth to kittens, small as bean pods. The mother warmed them with her body, licked each one until it was shiny, and when the kittens grew a little older, she began to get food for them. She knew this slope very well. In addition, she was a diligent mother and provided the kittens with plenty of food.

But somehow Belogrudka was tracked down by the Vereinsky boys, followed her down the slope, and hid. The belogrudka meandered through the forest for a long time, waving from tree to tree, then decided that the people had already left - they often pass by the slope - and returned to the nest.

Several human eyes were watching her. Belogrudka did not feel them, because she was all trembling, clinging to the kittens, and could not pay attention to anything. The white-breasted licked each of the cubs on the muzzle: they say, I’m here now, in an instant, and flew out of the nest.

It became more and more difficult to obtain food day by day. He was no longer near the nest, and the marten went from tree to tree, from fir to fir, to the lakes, then to the swamp, to big swamp behind the lake. There she attacked a simple jay and, joyful, rushed to her nest, carrying in her teeth a red bird with a spread blue wing.

The nest was empty. The white-breasted bird dropped its prey from its teeth, darted up the spruce, then down, then up again, to the nest, cunningly hidden in the thick spruce branches.

There were no kittens. If Belogrudka could scream, she would scream.

The kittens are gone, gone.

Belogrudka examined everything in order and discovered that people were trampling around the spruce tree and a man was clumsily climbing the tree, tearing off the bark, breaking off twigs, leaving a reeking smell of sweat and dirt in the folds of the bark.

By evening, Belogrudka definitely tracked down that her cubs were taken to the village. At night she found the house to which they were taken.

Until dawn she rushed around the house: from the roof to the fence, from the fence to the roof. I spent hours sitting on the bird cherry tree, under the window, listening for the kittens to squeak.

But in the yard a chain rattled and a dog barked hoarsely. The owner came out of the house several times and shouted angrily at her. The whitebreast was huddled in a lump on the bird cherry tree.

Now every night she sneaked up to the house, watched, watched, and the dog rattled and raged in the yard.

Once Belogrudka crept into the hayloft and stayed there until daylight, but during the day she did not dare to go into the forest. That afternoon she saw her kittens. The boy carried them out to the porch in an old hat and began to play with them, turning them upside down and flicking them on the nose. More boys came and began feeding the kittens raw meat. Then the owner appeared and, pointing to the kunyat, said:

- Why are you torturing animals? Take it to the nest. They will disappear.

Then there was that terrible day when Belogrudka again hid in the barn and again waited for the boys. They appeared on the porch and argued about something. One of them brought out an old hat and looked into it:

- Eh, I died alone...

The boy took the kitten by the paw and threw it to the dog. A fold-eared yard dog, who had been chained all his life and was accustomed to eating whatever was given, sniffed the kitten, turned it over with his paw and began to leisurely devour it from the head.

That same night, many chickens and hens were strangled in the village, and an old dog was strangled to death on a high dam after eating a kitten. Belogrudka ran along the fence and teased the stupid mongrel so much that she rushed after her, jumped over the fence, fell off and hung.

Ducklings and goslings were found strangled in gardens and on the street. In the outermost houses, which are closer to the forest, the bird has completely hatched.

And for a long time people could not find out who was robbing the village at night. But Belogrudka became completely furious and began to appear at houses even during the day and deal with everything that was within her power. The women gasped, the old women crossed themselves, the men swore:

- It's Satan! They called for an attack!

Belogrudka was waylaid and shot down from a poplar tree near old church. But Belogrudka did not die. Only two pellets got under her skin, and she hid in the nest for several days, licking her wounds.

When she cured herself, she again came to that house, where she seemed to be dragged by a leash.

Belogrudka did not yet know that the boy who took the baby birds was flogged with a belt and ordered to take them back to the nest. But the carefree boy was too lazy to climb into the forest support, threw the coonlets in a ravine near the forest and left. Here they were found and killed by a fox.

Belogrudka was orphaned. She began to recklessly crush pigeons and ducklings not only on the mountain, in Vereino, but also in Zuyaty.

She was caught in the cellar. Having opened the cellar trap, the owner of the last hut in Zuyaty saw Belogrudka.

- So there you are, Satan! - She clasped her hands and rushed to catch the marten.

All the cans, jars, and cups were knocked over and beaten before the woman grabbed the marten.

Belogrudka was imprisoned in a box. She gnawed the boards savagely, crumbling wood chips.

The owner came, he was a hunter, and when his wife told him that she had caught a marten, he said:

- Well, in vain. It is not her fault. She was offended, orphaned, and released the marten into the wild, thinking that she would never appear in Zuyaty again.

But Belogrudka began to rob even more than before. The hunter had to kill the marten long before the season.

In the garden near the greenhouse, he saw her one day, drove her onto a lonely bush and shot. The marten fell into the nettles and saw a dog running towards her with a big barking mouth. The white-breasted snake rose from the nettles, grabbed the dog’s throat and died.

The dog rolled around in the nettles, howling wildly. The hunter unclenched Belogrudka's teeth with a knife and broke two piercingly sharp fangs.

Belogrudka is still remembered in Vereino and Zuyaty. Until now, children here are strictly punished so that they do not dare touch baby animals and birds.

Now they live and breed peacefully between two villages, close to their homes, on a steep wooded slope, squirrels, different birds and little animals. And when I am in this village and hear the deep-voiced morning hubbub of birds, I think the same thing: “If only there were more such slopes near our villages and cities!”

Boris Zakhoder "Gray Star"

“Well,” said Papa Hedgehog, “this fairy tale is called “The Gray Star,” but from the title you would never guess who this fairy tale is about. Therefore, listen carefully and do not interrupt. All questions later.

- Are there really gray stars? - asked the Hedgehog.

“If you interrupt me again, I won’t tell you,” Hedgehog answered, but, noticing that his son was about to cry, he softened. - Actually, it doesn’t happen, although, in my opinion, it’s strange - after all grey colour the most beautiful. But there was only one Gray Star.

So, once upon a time there lived a toad - clumsy, ugly, in addition it smelled of garlic, and instead of thorns it had - can you imagine! - warts. Brr!

Fortunately, she did not know that she was so ugly, nor that she was a toad. Firstly, because she was very small and didn’t know much at all, and secondly, because no one called her that. She lived in a garden where Trees, Bushes and Flowers grew, and you should know that Trees, Bushes and Flowers only talk to those whom they really, really love. But you wouldn’t call someone you really, really love a toad.

The hedgehog snorted in agreement.

- Here you go. Trees, Bushes and Flowers loved the toad very much and therefore called it the most affectionate names. Especially Flowers.

- Why did they love her so much? — the Hedgehog asked quietly. The father frowned, and the Hedgehog immediately curled up.

“If you keep quiet, you’ll soon find out,” Hedgehog said sternly. He continued:

— When the toad appeared in the garden, the Flowers asked what its name was, and when she answered that she didn’t know, they were very happy.

“Oh, how great! - said Pansies (they were the first to see her). “Then we’ll come up with a name for you!” Do you want us to call you... let us call you Anyuta?”

“It’s better than Margarita,” said the Daisies. “This name is much more beautiful!”

Then the Roses intervened - they suggested calling her Beauty; The bells demanded that she be called Tinker Bell (this was the only word they knew how to speak), and a flower named Ivan-da-Marya suggested that she be called Vanechka-Manechka.

The Hedgehog snorted and glanced sideways at his father in fear, but the Hedgehog did not get angry, because the Hedgehog snorted at the right time. He continued calmly:

- In a word, there would be no end to the disputes if not for the Asters. And if it weren’t for the Scientist Starling.

“Let her be called Astra,” said the Asters.

“Or better yet. “A star,” said the Scientist Starling. - This means the same thing as Astra, only much more understandable. Besides, she really resembles a star - just look at how radiant her eyes are! And since she is gray, you can call her Gray Star - then there will be no confusion! Seems clear?

And everyone agreed with the Scientist Starling, because he was very smart, could speak several real human words and whistled almost to the end a piece of music, which, it seems, is called Hedgehog-Pyzhik or something like that. For this, people built him a house on a poplar tree.

Since then, everyone began to call the toad Gray Star. Everyone except the Bells - they still called her Tinker Bell, but that was the only word they knew how to say.

“There’s nothing to say, little star,” hissed the fat old Slug. He crawled onto the rose bush and approached the tender young leaves. - Nice star! After all, this is the most ordinary gray..."

He wanted to say “toad,” but did not have time, because at that very moment the Gray Star looked at him with her radiant eyes - and the Slug disappeared.

“Thank you, dear Star,” said Rose, turning pale with fear. “You saved me from a terrible enemy!”

“You need to know,” explained the Hedgehog, “that Flowers, Trees and Bushes, although they do no harm to anyone, on the contrary, do only good!” - there are also enemies. A lot of them! The good thing is that these enemies are quite tasty!

- So, Star ate this fat Slug? - asked the Hedgehog, licking his lips.

“Most likely yes,” said the Hedgehog. - True, you can’t guarantee.

No one saw how the Star ate Slugs, Voracious Beetles and Harmful Caterpillars. But all the enemies of the Flowers disappeared as soon as Gray Star looked at them with her radiant eyes. Disappeared forever. And since the Gray Star settled in the garden, the Trees, Flowers and Bushes began to live much better. Especially Flowers. Because the Bushes and Trees protected the Birds from enemies, but there was no one to protect the Flowers - they were too short for Birds.

That's why the Flowers fell in love with Gray Star so much. They blossomed with joy every morning when she came to the garden. All you could hear was: “Star, come to us!” - “No, come to us first! To us!.."

The flowers spoke to her the most kind words, and thanked her, and praised her in every way, but the Gray Star was modestly silent - after all, she was very, very modest, and only her eyes were shining.

One Magpie, who loved to eavesdrop on human conversations, once even asked if it was true that she had a gem hidden in her head and that’s why her eyes sparkled so much.

“I don’t know,” Gray Star said embarrassedly. “In my opinion, no...”

“Well, Soroka! What a blabbermouth! - said the Scientist Starling. - Not a stone, but confusion, and not in the Star's head, but in yours! Gray Star has radiant eyes because she has a clear conscience - after all, she is doing a Useful Deed! Seems clear?

- Dad, can I ask a question? - asked the Hedgehog.

- All questions later.

- Well, please, daddy, just one!

- One - so be it.

- Dad, are we useful?

“Very,” said the Hedgehog, “you can rest assured.” But listen to what happened next.

So, as I already said, the Flowers knew that Gray Star was kind, good and useful. The Birds knew this too. Of course, People knew too, especially Smart People. And only the enemies of the Flowers did not agree with this. “Vile, harmful little bitch!” - they hissed, of course, when Zvezdochka was not around. "Freak! It's disgusting! - the Gluttonous Beetles creaked. “We must deal with her! - the Caterpillars echoed them. “There’s simply no life for her!”

True, no one paid attention to their abuse and threats, and besides, there were fewer and fewer enemies, but, unfortunately, the closest relative of the Caterpillar, the butterfly Urticaria, intervened in the matter. She looked completely harmless and even pretty, but in reality she was terribly harmful. This happens sometimes.

Yes, I forgot to tell you that Gray Star never touched the Butterflies.

- Why? - asked the Hedgehog. -Are they tasteless?

“That’s not why at all, stupid.” Most likely because butterflies look like Flowers, and Star loved Flowers so much! And she probably didn’t know that Butterflies and Caterpillars are almost the same thing. After all, Caterpillars turn into Butterflies, and Butterflies hatch new Caterpillars...

So, the cunning Nettle came up with a cunning plan - how to destroy Gray Star.

“I will soon save you from this vile toad!” - she said to her sisters, the Caterpillars, and her friends, the Beetles and Slugs. And she flew away from the garden.

And when she returned, a Very Stupid Boy was running after her.

He had a skullcap in his hand, he was waving it in the air and thought that he was about to catch the pretty Nettle. Skullcap.

And the cunning Nettle pretended that she was about to get caught: she would sit on a flower, pretend not to notice the Very Stupid Boy, and then suddenly fly up in front of his very nose and fly to the next flowerbed.

And so she lured the Very Stupid Boy into the very depths of the garden, right on the path where Gray Star was sitting and talking with the Learned Starling.

The nettle was immediately punished for her vile act: the Scientist Starling flew off the branch like lightning and grabbed her with his beak. But it was already too late, because the Very Stupid Boy noticed the Gray Star.

Gray Star at first did not understand that he was talking about her, because no one had ever called her a toad. She did not move even when the Very Stupid Boy swung a stone at her.

At that same moment, a heavy stone fell to the ground next to Gray Star. Fortunately, the Very Stupid Boy missed, and Gray Star managed to jump to the side. Flowers and Herbs hid her from view. But the Very Stupid Boy did not stop. He picked up a few more stones and continued to throw them where the grass and flowers were moving.

"Toad! Poisonous toad! - he shouted. - Beat the ugly one!

“Dur-ra-chok! Dur-ra-chok! - the Scientist Starling shouted to him. - What kind of confusion is in your head? After all, she is useful! Seems clear?

But the Very Stupid Boy grabbed a stick and climbed into the Rose Bush - where, as it seemed to him, the Gray Star was hiding.

The Rose Bush pricked him with all its might with its sharp thorns. And the Very Stupid Boy ran out of the garden roaring.

- Hurray! - Hedgehog shouted.

- Yes, brother, thorns are a good thing! - Hedgehog continued. “If Gray Star had thorns, then perhaps she would not have had to cry so bitterly that day.” But, as you know, she had no thorns, and so she sat under the roots of the Rose Bush and wept bitterly.

“He called me a toad,” she sobbed, “ugly!” That's what the Man said, but people are everything they know! So, I’m a toad, a toad!..”

Everyone consoled her as best they could: Pansy said that she would always remain their sweet Gray Star; The roses told her that beauty is not the most important thing in life (this was no small sacrifice on their part). “Don’t cry, Vanechka-Manechka,” Ivan-da-Marya repeated, and the Bells whispered: “Ding-Ding, Ting-Ding,” and this also sounded very comforting.

But Gray Star cried so loudly that she did not hear any consolation. This always happens when people start consoling too early. The flowers didn’t know, but the Scientist Starling knew it very well. He let Gray Star cry as much as she could, and then said:

“I won’t console you, darling. I'll tell you only one thing: it's not about the name. And in any case, it doesn’t matter at all what some Stupid Boy, who has nothing but confusion in his head, says about you! For all your friends, you were and will be a sweet Gray Star. Seems clear?

And he whistled a piece of music about... about the Hedgehog-Fawn to cheer up Gray Star and show that he considered the conversation over.

Gray Star stopped crying.

“You’re right, of course, Skvorushka,” she said. “Of course, it’s not a matter of the name... But still... still, I probably won’t come to the garden during the day anymore, so... so as not to meet someone stupid...”

And since then, Gray Star - and not only she, but all her brothers, sisters, children and grandchildren come to the garden and do their useful work only at night.

The hedgehog cleared his throat and said:

- Now you can ask questions.

- How many? - asked the Hedgehog.

“Three,” answered the Hedgehog.

- Oh! Then... First question: is it true that Stars, that is, toads, do not eat butterflies, or is this just a fairy tale?

- Is it true.

- And the Very Stupid Boy said that toads are poisonous. This is true?

- Nonsense! Of course, I don’t advise you to put them in your mouth. But they are not poisonous at all.

- Is it true... Is this the third question?

- Yes, the third one. All.

- As everybody?

- So. After all, you already asked it. You asked: “Is this the third question?”

- Well, dad, you're always teasing.

- Look, how smart! Okay, so be it, ask your question.

- Oh, I forgot... Oh, yes... Where did all these nasty enemies disappear to?

- Well, of course, she swallowed them. She just grabs them with her tongue so quickly that no one can follow it, and it seems like they just disappear. And now I have a question, my little furry one: isn’t it time for us to go to bed? After all, you and I are also useful and must also do our Useful Work at night, and now it’s morning...

Marina Moskvina “Magnifying glass”

Once upon a time there was a magnifying glass. It was lying there, lying in the forest - apparently someone had dropped it. And this is what came out of it...

A hedgehog was walking through this forest. He walked and walked and looked and there was a magnifying glass. The hedgehog lived his whole life in the forest and never saw a magnifying glass. He didn't even know that a magnifying glass was called a magnifying glass, so he said to himself:

- What is this thing lying around? Some interesting stuff, huh?

He took the magnifying glass in his paws and began to look through it at the whole world around him. And I saw that the world around me had become big, big, much bigger than before.

And there was a lot more stuff that he hadn’t noticed before. For example, small grains of sand, sticks, holes, lines and boogers.

And then he saw an ant. He had not noticed the Ants before because they were small. And now the ant was large, magnified with a magnifying glass, and it was also dragging a real log.

Although in fact it was a blade of grass, if you look without a magnifying glass.

The hedgehog really liked this ant, the way it was dragging a heavy log. And I liked his face: the ant had a good face - kind and thoughtful.

And suddenly... the ant fell into the spider's web. I gaped and - bam! - got it. I immediately got confused, and the spider was right there, dragging the ant towards itself, wanting to eat it!

The hedgehog pointed a magnifying glass at the spider and even got scared - this spider had such an angry, angry and greedy face!

Then the hedgehog said to the spider:

- Well, let the ant go, or else I’ll give it to you! There won’t be a wet spot left of you, you’re so mean and greedy!

The spider got scared because the hedgehog was much bigger and much stronger. He released the ant, pretended that it had changed for the better, and said:

- I won't do it again. From now on I will only eat mushrooms and berries. Well, I'm off...

And he thinks:

“What’s wrong with the hedgehog? In the good old days, I ate whole heaps of Ants - he never stood up for anyone. It's all the magnifying glass's fault! Well, I’ll take revenge on him, destroy him, smash him to pieces!..”

And the spider followed the hedgehog unnoticed. But the hedgehog doesn’t notice him, he walks along and looks around through a magnifying glass.

- Tell me, dear, where are you from? Who are you? - he asks everyone he meets.

- I am an aphid!

- I am a scolopendra!

- I am a forest bug!..

- Buddies! Countrymen! Brother rabbits!!! - the hedgehog is surprised. - There are so many people in the world!.. Caterpillar, stop gnawing on the leaves!

- This is my own business! - the caterpillar snapped.

- Yes! - A spider poked its head out of the bushes. — It’s everyone’s personal business what and who they eat.

- No, public! - says the hedgehog. He turned around, but the spider had disappeared.

- Comrade! - the hedgehog shouts to the centipede. - Why are you darker than a cloud?

- I twisted my ankle. As you can see, there is a fracture.

The hedgehog put down the magnifying glass and wanted to provide first aid. And how the spider throws a lasso! He threw it on a magnifying glass and dragged him into the bushes!

Fortunately, the hedgehog without glass could not tell which leg the centipede was hurting - the thirty-third or thirty-fourth. I made it on time. Otherwise, look for fistulas!..

At every step there was danger lurking with a magnifying glass.

- Friends! - the hedgehog screams. —— Single-celled brothers! Midges, insects, ciliates, slippers! I invite everyone to visit! I'll give you a feast!

He leaned the glass against a pine tree and left it unattended for a minute. Spider grab a shovel! And let’s quickly bury the magnifying glass in the ground.

And through the glass the sun began to shine on the spider, the heat turned out to be increased! Like in Africa, in the Sahara Desert. Only a tarantula or a scorpion could endure this. And this was our Central Russian spider. I barely made it off my feet, otherwise I would have been guaranteed sunstroke.

The hedgehog is walking home, and behind him is a countless company that cannot be seen with the naked eye. They fly, crawl, swim, some jump... Shu-shu-shu! - They won’t understand what’s the matter. The hedgehog never paid any attention to them, but then suddenly - all of a sudden!

But the spider is not far behind.

“I won’t be me,” he thinks, “if I don’t hurt the hedgehog!” I won't do any harm! I won’t destroy the magnifying glass!”

Everyone comes into the house in a crowd, and he waits outside, waiting for the right moment.

The insects sat down at the table, prepared to help themselves, and heard a hoarse bass voice coming from under the table:

- Basta, I'm leaving! I will live and work on a river boat.

The hedgehog looked under the table through a magnifying glass - and there was a terrible creature. He has such a long body, long wings, long legs and long mustache. But that's not all. Lying there under the table musical instrument- saxophone.

- Who is this? - asks the hedgehog.

“Oh, you,” said the creature. “You and I have been living in the same house for ages, and you don’t even know that I’m a cricket.”

“Here the cricket’s life is full of sadness,” said the cricket. - I'm always sick. There has been no glass in the window for a year now. I’ll get a job in a street orchestra!.. Big band!.. Otherwise, the hedgehog, apparently, decided that any idiot can play jazz.

- Don't go! - says the hedgehog. - So many songs have not been sung yet!..

And he put a magnifying glass in the window.

The festive dinner has begun! The cricket warmed up and alone replaced the whole dance orchestra. He didn't even expect that it could turn out so great. The forest bug sang, the others - including a hedgehog and a centipede with a plastered leg - danced. The ciliate slipper was tap dancing!..

And the caterpillar ate without stopping. I ate six buns with jam, an apple pie, four kulebyaki, drank two liters of milk and a pot of coffee.

It got dark outside. The stars lit up in the sky. Through a magnifying glass they seemed huge and bright. And the spider is right there. I crept up to the house under the cover of darkness with a big, big soccer ball, took aim at the magnifying glass and wow!

“Yeah! - thinks. “Now it’s ding-ding and gone!”

And it stands in the frame undamaged - and enlarges, as if nothing had happened. The spider beat him, beat him, beat him with a stick, shot him with pine cones, but did not harm him in any way.

It is very thick and strong - a magnifying glass.

Who doesn't remember their first books? There probably won't be such a person. From the first thick pages of “baby” books, children begin to become acquainted with the world around them. They will learn about the inhabitants of the forest and their habits, about domestic animals and their benefits to humans, about the life of plants and the seasons. Books gradually, with each page, bring children closer to the world of nature, teach them to take care of it and live in harmony with it.

Prishvin's stories about nature occupy a special, unique place among literary works intended for children's reading. An unsurpassed master of the short genre, he subtly and clearly described the world of forest inhabitants. Sometimes a few sentences were enough for him to do this.

Observation skills of a young naturalist

As a boy, M. Prishvin felt his calling to write. Stories about nature appeared in the first notes of his own diary, which began in the childhood of the future writer. He grew up as an inquisitive and very attentive child. The small estate where Prishvin spent his childhood was located in the Oryol province, famous for its dense forests, sometimes impenetrable.

Fascinating stories from hunters about encounters with forest dwellers early childhood excited the boy's imagination. No matter how much the young naturalist asked to go hunting, his first wish was granted only at the age of 13. Until this time, he was only allowed to walk in the area, and for such solitude he used every opportunity.

First forest impressions

During his favorite walks through the forest, the young dreamer listened with pleasure to the singing of birds, looked carefully at the slightest changes in nature and looked for meetings with his mysterious inhabitants. Often he got it from his mother for a long absence. But the boy's stories about him forest discoveries were so emotional and full of delight that parental anger quickly gave way to mercy. The little naturalist immediately wrote down all his observations in his diary.

It was these first recordings of impressions from encounters with the secrets of nature that were included in Prishvin’s stories about nature and helped the writer find those exact words that became clear even to little ones.

Attempt at writing

The writing talent of the young nature lover was first truly noticed at the Yelets Gymnasium, where the writer V. Rozanov worked as a geography teacher at that time. It was he who noted the teenager’s attentive attitude to his native land and the ability to accurately, briefly, and very clearly describe his impressions in school essays. The teacher’s recognition of Prishvin’s special powers of observation subsequently played a role important role in deciding to devote himself to literature. But it will be accepted only at the age of 30, and all the previous years his diary will become a treasury of naturalistic impressions. From this piggy bank many of Prishvin’s stories about nature, written for young readers, will appear.

Member of an expedition to the northern regions

The future writer’s attraction to biology first manifested itself in the desire to acquire the profession of an agronomist (he studied in Germany). Then he successfully applied the acquired knowledge in agricultural science (he worked at the Moscow Agricultural Academy). But the turning point in his life was his acquaintance with academician linguist A.A. Shakhmatov.

General interest in ethnography prompted the writer to go on a scientific expedition to the northern regions of Russia to study folklore and collect local legends.

The nature of our native places has overcome doubts

The virginity and purity of the northern landscapes had an indelible impression on the writer, and this fact became a turning point in determining his purpose. It was on this journey that his thoughts often drifted back to his childhood, when as a boy he wanted to escape to distant Asia. Here, among the untouched forest expanses, he realized that native nature became for him that same dream, but not distant, but close and understandable. “Only here for the first time did I understand what it meant to live on my own and be responsible for myself,” Prishvin wrote on the pages of his diary. Stories about nature formed the basis of impressions from that trip and were included in the naturalistic collection “In the Land of Unfrightened Birds.” The wide recognition of the book opened the doors to all literary societies for its author.

Having gained invaluable experience as a naturalist in his travels, the writer gives birth to books one after another. The travel notes and essays of the naturalist will form the basis of such works as “Behind the Magic Kolobok”, “Bright Lake”, “Black Arab”, “Bird Cemetery” and “Glorious Tambourines”. In Russian literary circles, Mikhail Prishvin will be recognized as the “singer of nature”. Stories about nature, written by this time, were already very popular and served as an example for the study of literature in primary school gymnasiums.

Singer of nature

In the 20s, Prishvin's first stories about nature appeared, marking the beginning of a whole series of short sketches about the life of the forest - children's and hunting. Naturalistic and geographical notes at this stage of creativity receive a philosophical and poetic overtones and are collected in the book “Calendar of Nature”, where Prishvin himself becomes the “poet and singer of pure life”. Nature stories are now all about celebrating the beauty that surrounds us. The kind, humane and easy-to-understand narrative language cannot leave anyone indifferent. In these literary sketches, little readers not only discover a new world of forest inhabitants, but also learn to understand what it means to pay attention to them.

The moral core of children's stories by M. Prishvin

Having acquired a certain amount of knowledge in the first years of life, children continue to replenish it once they cross the threshold of school. Thrift towards natural resources of the earth is formed both at the stage of cognition and in the process of their creativity. Man and nature in Prishvin's stories are the very basis for the education of moral values, which should be laid in early childhood. And fiction has a special impact on the fragile feelings of children. It is the book that serves as a platform of knowledge, a support for a future integral personality.

The value of Prishvin's stories for the moral education of children lies in his own perception of nature. The main character on the pages short stories becomes the author himself. Reflecting his childhood impressions through hunting sketches, the writer conveys to the kids an important idea: one should hunt not for animals, but for knowledge about them. He went hunting for starlings, quails, butterflies and grasshoppers without a gun. Explaining this oddity to experienced foresters, he said that his main trophy was his finds and observations. The treasure hunter very subtly notices any changes around, and under his pen, between the lines, nature is filled with life: it sounds and breathes.

Living pages with sounds and breathing

From the pages of the books of the naturalist writer you can hear the real sounds and talk of forest life. The inhabitants of the green spaces whistle and cuckoo, yell and squeak, hum and hiss. Grass, trees, streams and lakes, paths and even old stumps - they all live real life. In the story “The Golden Meadow,” simple dandelions fall asleep at night and wake up with the sunrise. Just like people. The familiar mushroom, which with difficulty lifts leaves on its shoulders, is compared to the hero in “Strong Man.” In “Obushka”, through the eyes of the author, children see a spruce tree that looks like it’s dressed in long dress lady, and her companions - herringbone fir-trees.

Prishvin's stories about nature, so easily perceived by children's imagination and forcing children to look at the natural world through the eyes of joy and surprise, undoubtedly indicate that the writer retained the world of a child in his soul until old age.

We present to your attention a selection of children's stories about nature and animals by the author Mikhail Prishvin. These stories can be read by parents to children 3-4 years old, and are also well suited for mastering reading techniques for children 6-8 years old.

Prishvin's short stories for children have been written in simple language, understandable even to kindergarteners. Such stories are very educational for children and also instill a love for nature.

Fox bread

One day I walked in the forest all day and in the evening I returned home with rich booty. He took the heavy bag off his shoulders and began to lay out his belongings on the table.

- What kind of bird is this? – Zinochka asked.

“Terenty,” I answered.

And he told her about the black grouse: how it lives in the forest, how it mutters in the spring, how it pecks at birch buds, collects berries in the swamps in the fall, and warms itself from the wind under the snow in winter. He also told her about the hazel grouse, showed her that it was gray with a tuft, and whistled into the pipe in the hazel grouse style and let her whistle. I also poured a lot of porcini mushrooms, both red and black, onto the table. I also had a bloody boneberry in my pocket, and a blue blueberry, and a red lingonberry. I also brought with me a fragrant lump of pine resin, gave it to the girl to smell and said that trees are treated with this resin.

– Who treats them there? – Zinochka asked.

“They are treating themselves,” I answered. “Sometimes a hunter comes and wants to rest, he’ll stick an ax into a tree and hang his bag on the ax, and he’ll lie down under the tree.” He'll sleep and rest. He takes an ax out of the tree, puts on a bag, and leaves. And from the wound from the wood ax this fragrant resin will run and heal the wound.

Also on purpose for Zinochka, I brought various wonderful herbs, one leaf at a time, a root at a time, a flower at a time: cuckoo’s tears, valerian, Peter’s cross, hare’s cabbage. And just under the hare cabbage I had a piece of black bread: it always happens to me that when I don’t take bread into the forest, I’m hungry, but if I take it, I forget to eat it and bring it back. And Zinochka, when she saw black bread under my hare cabbage, was stunned:

-Where did the bread come from in the forest?

– What’s surprising here? After all, there is cabbage there!

- Hare...

- And the bread is chanterelle bread. Taste it. I tasted it carefully and started eating:

- Good chanterelle bread!

And she ate all my black bread clean. And so it went with us: Zinochka, such a copula, often won’t even take white bread, but when I bring fox bread from the forest, she will always eat it all and praise it:

- Fox bread is much better than ours!

Golden Meadow

My brother and I always had fun with them when dandelions ripened. It used to be that we would go somewhere on our business - he was ahead, I was at the heel.

Seryozha! – I’ll call him in a businesslike manner. He will look back, and I will blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, like a gape, he also makes a fuss. And so we picked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.

We lived in a village, in front of our window there was a meadow, all golden with many blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.

One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers on the side of your palm were yellow and, clenching into a fist, we would close the yellow one. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw the dandelions opening their palms, and this made the meadow turn golden again.

Since then, dandelion has become one of the most interesting colors, because dandelions went to bed with us children, and got up with us.

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Squirrel Memory

Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since the fall, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran ten meters away, dived again, again left a shell on the snow and after a few meters made a third climb.

What kind of miracle? It’s impossible to think that she could smell the nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. This means that since the fall I remembered about my nuts and the exact distance between them.

But the most amazing thing is that she could not measure centimeters like we did, but directly by eye she determined with precision, dived and reached. Well, how could one not envy the squirrel’s memory and ingenuity!

Belyak

All night long in the forest, straight wet snow pressed on the twigs, broke off, fell, rustled.

The rustle drove the white hare out of the forest, and he probably realized that by morning the black field would turn white and he, completely white, could lie peacefully. And he lay down on a field not far from the forest, and not far from him, also like a hare, lay weathered over the summer and whitened sun rays horse skull.

By dawn the whole field was covered, and both the white hare and the white skull had disappeared into the white immensity.

We were a little late, and by the time we released the hound, the tracks had already begun to blur.

When Osman began to disassemble the fat, it was still difficult to distinguish the shape of the hare's paw from the hare's: he was walking along the hare. But before Osman had time to straighten the trail, everything completely melted away on the white path, and then there was neither sight nor smell left on the black one.

We gave up on hunting and began to return home at the edge of the forest.

“Look through binoculars,” I said to my friend, “that it’s white there on the black field and so bright.”

“Horse skull, head,” he answered.

I took the binoculars from him and also saw the skull.

“There’s something still white there,” said the comrade, “look further to the left.”

I looked there, and there, also like a skull, bright white, lay a hare, and through prismatic binoculars you could even see black eyes on the white. He was in a desperate situation: lying down meant being in full view of everyone, running meant leaving a print on the soft wet ground for the dog. We stopped his hesitation: we lifted him up, and at the same moment Osman, having seen him again, set off with a wild roar towards the sighted man.

Hunting for a butterfly

Zhulka, my young marbled blue hunting dog, runs like crazy after birds, after butterflies, even after large flies until the hot breath throws her tongue out of her mouth. But that doesn't stop her either.

Today there was such a story in front of everyone.

The yellow cabbage butterfly caught my eye. Giselle rushed after her, jumped and missed. The butterfly continued to move. The crook is behind her - hap! At least there’s something for the butterfly: it flies, flutters, as if laughing.

Hap! - past. Hap, hap! – past and past.

Hap, hap, hap - and there is no butterfly in the air.

Where is our butterfly? Excitement began among the children. "Ahah!" - that was all I could hear.

The butterfly is not in the air, the cabbage plant has disappeared. Giselle herself stands motionless, like wax, turning her head up, down, and sideways in surprise.

- Where is our butterfly?

At this time, hot steam began to press inside Zhulka’s mouth - dogs don’t have sweat glands. The mouth opened, the tongue fell out, steam escaped, and along with the steam a butterfly flew out and, as if nothing had happened to it at all, fluttered about over the meadow.

Zhulka was so exhausted with this butterfly, it was probably so difficult for her to hold her breath with the butterfly in her mouth, that now, having seen the butterfly, she suddenly gave up. With her long, pink tongue hanging out, she stood and looked at the flying butterfly with eyes that immediately became small and stupid.

The children pestered us with the question:

- Well, why doesn’t the dog have sweat glands?

We didn't know what to tell them.

Schoolboy Vasya Veselkin answered them:

“If dogs had glands and they didn’t have to laugh, they would have caught and eaten all the butterflies long ago.”

Grouse

Three forest birds, very close relatives, behave very differently when a person with his fields approaches their protected forests. The capercaillie, like an Old Believer, cannot tolerate human proximity and goes further and further into the wilderness. It can only be saved from extinction on earth by protecting nature reserves. The black grouse, on the contrary, adapts to human farming in such a way that it changes from forest to field and grazes on rye, oats, and buckwheat. But the hazel grouse hides, remaining in the same places, and, without sacrificing anything, does not go anywhere, but does not take anything from the fields. And even if not dense forests, but only bushes remain, he will hide in the shallow forest that you will never catch him. It very rarely happens that a hazel grouse will withstand the dog’s stance and allow the hunter to approach the shot. Usually the dog leads and leads, and suddenly somewhere in the bushes: “pr. pr. pr.! " - it will flutter. He’ll fly off not far, stretch out somewhere along a twig in a dense tree, and you won’t even notice him, but he looks at you, waits, and when you get very close, he’ll do his “pr.” again. pr. pr.! " that's all you hear.

The hazel grouse remains a purely forest bird, like wood grouse; where there are wood grouse, there are usually also hazel grouse, although the reverse cannot be said: there are often a lot of grouse, and wood grouse have long since migrated to deeper forests.

Once we went to the capercaillie broods. The dog soon picked up the scent and led the way. We followed her for a long time. When she stopped, they walked around the bush from different sides so that the bird would appear to one or the other and they could shoot at it. In a deep forest, in dense junipers and hummocks, worried by every rustle, calling to each other quietly so as to know where our comrade was and not shoot in his direction, we were soon exhausted. The dog suddenly dropped the eyeliner and began to run around in different directions, asking the forest in every possible way where the birds had gone. And we also thought about the capercaillie, that probably the cattle had climbed up here and scared them away, or perhaps a hawk in the clearing looked at them from above, rushed, scattered them, and only traces remained, along which we wander in vain. This is how we thought about wood grouse, and these were hazel grouse. Hearing our approach from afar, they flew up onto the fir trees and, when we followed the tracks below, mistaking them for capercaillie, they looked at us from above all the time.

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Stories for children about nature. Stories about fragrant flowers, about the wonderful smell of a beautiful forest, about a swan, about birds. Stories by Sergei Aksakov and Nikolai Sladkov.

Sergey Aksakov

NATURE'S POETRY

Which light air, what a wonderful smell wafted from the nearby forest and the grass that was mown early in the morning, replete with many fragrant flowers, which from the hot sun had already begun to wither and emit a particularly pleasant smell! The untouched grass stood like a wall, waist-high, and the peasants said: “What kind of grass! Bear is a bear! Jackdaws and crows, having flown in from the forest where their nests were located, were already walking along the green, high rows of mown grass. I was told that they were picking up various bugs, boogers and worms that had previously been hidden in the thick grass, but were now running in plain sight on overturned plant stems and on the bare ground. As I came closer, I saw with my own eyes that this was absolutely true. Moreover, I noticed that the bird also pecked berries. The strawberries were still green in the grass, but unusually large; in open places she was already keeping up. From the mown rows, my father and I picked a large bunch of berries, some of which were larger than an ordinary nut; Many of them, although they had not yet turned red, were already soft and tasty.

Sergey Aksakov

SWAN

The swan, due to its size, strength, beauty and majestic posture, has long been rightly called the king of all aquatic, or waterfowl.

White as snow, with shiny, transparent small eyes, with a black nose and black paws, with a long, flexible and beautiful neck, he is inexpressibly beautiful when he calmly swims between the green reeds on the dark blue, smooth surface of the water.

All the movements of the swan are full of charm: will it start to drink and, scooping up water with its nose, raise its head up and stretch its neck; will he begin to swim, dive and splash with his mighty wings, scattering far away the splashes of water rolling off his fluffy body; will he then begin to preen himself, easily and freely arching his snow-white neck back, straightening and cleaning with his nose the crumpled or dirty feathers on the back, sides and tail; whether the wing spreads through the air, as if a long slanting sail, and also begins to finger every feather in it with its nose, airing and drying it in the sun - everything is picturesque and magnificent about it.

Nikolay Sladkov

WAGTAIL LETTERS

There is a mailbox nailed to the garden gate. The box is homemade, wooden, with a narrow slot for letters. The mailbox had been hanging on the fence for so long that its boards had turned gray and woodworm had infested them.

In the autumn, a woodpecker flew into the garden. He clung to the box, tapped his nose and immediately guessed: there was wood inside! Right next to the crack into which the letters are dropped, he hollowed out a round hole.

And in the spring, a wagtail flew into the garden - a thin gray bird with a long tail. She flew up to the mailbox, looked with one eye into the hole made by the woodpecker, and chose the box for a nest. We called this wagtail the Postman. Not because she settled in the mailbox, but because she, like a real postman, began to bring and put various pieces of paper in the mailbox.

When the real postman came and put a letter in the box, the frightened wagtail flew out of the box and ran along the roof for a long time, squeaking anxiously and shaking its long tail. And we already knew: if the bird is worried, it means there is a letter for us.

Soon our postwoman brought out the chicks. She has worries and worries for the whole day: she needs to feed the chicks and protect them from enemies. As soon as the postman now appeared on the street, the wagtail was already flying towards him, fluttering right next to his head and squeaking anxiously. The bird recognized him well among other people.

Hearing the desperate squeak of the wagtail, we ran out to meet the postman and took newspapers and letters from him: we did not want him to disturb the bird.

The chicks grew quickly. The most dexterous ones began to look out of the crack of the box, twisting their noses and squinting from the sun. And one day the whole cheerful family flew away to the wide, sun-drenched river shallows.

And when autumn came, the wandering woodpecker flew into the garden again. He clung to the mailbox and with his nose, like a chisel, he hollowed out the hole so much that he could stick his hand through it.

I reached into the box and took out all the Wagtail “letters.” There were dry blades of grass, scraps of newspaper, pieces of cotton wool, hair, candy wrappers, and shavings.

Over the winter, the box became completely decrepit and was no longer suitable for letters. But we don’t throw it away: we are waiting for the return of the little gray Postman. We are waiting for him to drop his first spring letter into our mailbox.

To depict the vibrant world of nature for the youngest readers, many writers have turned to the genre of literature such as fairy tales. Even in many folk tales, the main characters are natural phenomena, forest, frost, snow, water, plants. These Russian fairy tales about nature are very fascinating and educational, they talk about the change of seasons, the sun, the month, and various animals. It is worth remembering the most famous of them: “Winter Hut of Animals”, “Sister Fox and the Gray Wolf”, “Mitten”, “Teremok”, “Kolobok”. Tales about nature were also written by many Russians and it is worth noting such authors as K. Paustovsky, K. Ushinsky, V. Bianki, D. Mamin-Sibiryak, M. Prishvin, N. Sladkov, I. Sokolov-Mikitov, E. Permyak. Fairy tales about nature teach children to love the world around them, to be attentive and observant.

The magic of the surrounding world in the fairy tales of D. Ushinsky

Russian writer D. Ushinsky, like a talented artist, wrote fairy tales about natural phenomena, different times of the year. From these short works, children will learn about how the stream roars, clouds float and birds sing. The writer’s most famous fairy tales are: “The Raven and the Magpie”, “The Woodpecker”, “The Goose and the Crane”, “The Horse”, “Bishka”, “The Wind and the Sun”, as well as a huge number of stories. Ushinsky skillfully uses animals and nature to reveal to young readers concepts such as greed, nobility, betrayal, stubbornness, and cunning. These fairy tales are very kind, they are recommended to be read to children before bed. Ushinsky's books are very well illustrated.

Creations of D. Mamin-Sibiryak for children

Man and nature are very current problem For modern world. Mamin-Sibiryak devoted many works to this topic, but especially the collection “Alyonushka’s Tales” should be highlighted. The writer himself raised and cared for his sick daughter, and this interesting collection was intended for her. In these fairy tales, children will get acquainted with Komar Komarovich, Ruff Ershovich, Shaggy Misha, and the Brave Hare. From these entertaining works, children will learn about the life of animals, insects, birds, fish, and plants. Almost everyone is familiar with the very touching cartoon from childhood, based on the fairy tale of the same name by Mamin-Sibiryak “The Gray Neck”.

M. Prishvin and nature

Prishvin's short tales about nature are very kind and fascinating, telling about the habits of forest inhabitants, the greatness and beauty of their native places. Little readers will learn about the rustling of leaves, forest smells, and the babbling of a stream. All these stories end well and evoke in readers a feeling of empathy for their smaller brothers and a desire to help them. The most famous stories: “Pantry of the Sun”, “Khromka”, “Hedgehog”.

Tales of V. Bianchi

Russian fairy tales and stories about plants and animals are presented by another wonderful writer - Vitaly Bianki. His fairy tales teach children to unravel the mysteries of the lives of birds and animals. Many of them are intended for the youngest readers: “The Fox and the Mouse”, “The Little Cuckoo”, “The Golden Heart”, “The Orange Neck”, “The First Hunt” and many others. Bianchi knew how to observe the life of nature through the eyes of children. Some of his tales about nature are endowed with tragedy or humor, they contain lyrical reflection and poetry.

Forest tales by Nikolai Sladkov

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov wrote more than 60 books, and he was the author of the radio program “News from the Forest.” The heroes of his books are kind, funny little animals. Each story is very sweet and kind, tells about funny habits and Little readers will learn from them that animals can also worry and grieve, as they store food for the winter. Sladkov's favorite fairy tales: "Forest Rustle", "Badger and the Bear", "Polite Jackdaw", "Hare Round Dance", "Desperate Hare".

Storehouse of fairy tales by E. Permyak

Fairy tales about nature were composed by the famous playwright and writer Evgeniy Andreevich Permyak. They are representatives of the golden fund. These small works teach children to be hardworking, honest, responsible, to believe in themselves and their strengths. It is necessary to highlight the most famous fairy tales of Evgeniy Andreevich: “Birch Grove”, “Currant”, “How Fire Married Water”, “The First Fish”, “About the Hasty Tit and the Patient Tit”, “The Ugly Christmas Tree”. Permyak's books were very colorfully illustrated by the most famous Russian artists.