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May read Sokolov Mikitov. On the warm earth (collection). On native land

Sokolov-Mikitov Iv

Found Meadow (Stories)

Ivan Sergeevich SOKOLOV-MIKITOV

found meadow

stories

Compiled by Kaleria Zhekhova

Fascinating stories about Russian nature, written by the oldest Soviet writer, have long been loved by the young reader. This collection is a miniature encyclopedia of the forest near Moscow, it tells about everything that lives in the forest all year round: about birds and animals, about flowers, herbs and trees.

The stories contained in the book allow us to feel the diversity of life more fully and brighter, to see the beauty of the forest, to unravel its mysteries, to better understand the beauty of our native nature, to become its friend.

The book is dedicated to the 85th anniversary of the writer.

With love for wildlife. Introductory article by V. Soloukhin

IN THE NATIVE LAND

Sunrise

Russian Winter

March in the forest

Spring sounds

Pinwheel

Russian forest

RUSSIAN FOREST

Juniper

bird cherry

Snowdrops - copses

sleep-grass

bathing suit

bells

forget-me-nots

Lungwort

Wolf's bast

Dandelion

Ivan da Marya

night violets

cat paws

kaluzhnitsa

cornflowers

northern flowers

SOUNDS OF THE EARTH

Sounds of the earth

lark

Swallows and swifts

cuckoo

Wagtails

Nuthatch

Kingfisher

Raven Petka

Rooks and jackdaws

Sparrow Owl

BEASTS IN THE FOREST

Guide Bear

sweet tooth

Naydenov meadow

Ermine

Otters and minks

Chipmunk

The last hare

AN OLD HUNTER'S TALES

birds of prey

woodcocks

Dupeliny current

On a bear hunt

disturbed

On a fishing trip

I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov. Kaleria Zhekhova.

________________________________________________________________

WITH LOVE TO WILD NATURE

From childhood, from the school bench, a person gets used to the combination of words: "love for the motherland." He realizes this love much later, and to understand the complex feeling of love for the motherland - that is, what exactly and for what he loves is already given in adulthood.

The feeling is really complex. Here is the native culture, and native history, all the past and all the future of the people, everything that the people managed to accomplish throughout their history and what they still have to do.

Without going into deep considerations, we can say that one of the first places in the complex feeling of love for the motherland is love for the native nature.

For a person born in the mountains, nothing can be sweeter than rocks and mountain streams, snow-white peaks and steep slopes. It would seem that what to love in the tundra? A monotonous swampy land with countless glassy lakes, overgrown with lichens, but the Nenets reindeer herder will not exchange his tundra for any southern beauties there.

In a word, to whom the steppe is dear, to whom the mountains, to whom the sea coast smelling of fish, and to whom the native Central Russian nature, the quiet beauties of the river with yellow water lilies and white lilies, the kind, quiet sun of Ryazan ... And so that the lark sang over the field rye, and to the birdhouse on the birch in front of the porch.

It would be pointless to list all the signs of Russian nature. But thousands of signs and signs add up to that common thing that we call our native nature and that we, loving, perhaps, both the sea and the mountains, still love more than anything else in the whole world.

All this is so. But it must be said that this feeling of love for our native nature is not spontaneous in us, it not only arose by itself, since we were born and grew up among nature, but was brought up in us by literature, painting, music, by those great teachers of ours who lived before us. , also loved their native land and passed on their love to us, the descendants.

Don't we remember from childhood by heart the best lines about the nature of Pushkin, Lermontov, Nekrasov, Alexei Tolstoy, Tyutchev, Fet? Do they leave us indifferent, do they not teach anything about nature from Turgenev, Aksakov, Leo Tolstoy, Prishvin, Leonov, Paustovsky?.. And painting? Shishkin and Levitan, Polenov and Savrasov, Nesterov and Plastov - didn't they teach and still don't teach us to love our native nature? Among these glorious teachers, the name of the remarkable Russian writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov occupies a worthy place.

Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov was born in 1892 on the land of Smolensk, and his childhood passed among the very Russian nature. At that time, folk customs, rituals, holidays, way of life and way of life were still alive. Shortly before his death, Ivan Sergeevich wrote about that time and about that world:

"My life began in native peasant Russia. This Russia was my real homeland. I listened to peasant songs, watched how bread was baked in a Russian oven, memorized village thatched huts, women and peasants ... I remember merry Christmas time, Shrovetide, village weddings, fairs, round dances, village friends, guys, our fun games, skiing from the mountains ... I remember a cheerful haymaking, a village field sown with rye, narrow fields, blue cornflowers along the borders ... I remember how, having changed into festive sundresses, women and girls went out to reap the ripened rye, scattered like colorful bright spots across the golden clean field, as the reapers were celebrating. was Russia, which Pushkin knew, Tolstoy knew" *.

* S o k o l o V-M and k and t o v I. S. Long-standing meetings.

Ivan Sergeevich lived a long and rich life. For several years he sailed as a sailor on all seas and oceans, served in a sanitary detachment during the First World War, worked as a teacher, spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian Sea, traveled through the Kola and Taimyr Peninsulas, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan mountains, wandered through the dense taiga ... He was a sailor, traveler, hunter, ethnographer. But most importantly, he was a talented and brilliant writer. Even Kuprin once praised Sokolov-Mikitov as a writer:

"I really appreciate your gift for writing for your vivid depiction, true knowledge of folk life, for a lively and truthful language. Most of all, I like that you have found your own, exclusively your style and your own form. Both of these do not allow you to be confused with anyone anything, and that's the most expensive."

There were many crayfish in the pond and in the river. They caught them with their hands under the shore in deep caves, under stones at the bottom of a shallow river, which quickly ran along a stony, slippery bottom. I vividly remember how, having rolled up my trousers, I wandered along the running water and, having carefully rolled off a flat stone at the bottom, in a cloud of light turbidity that had risen, I saw a lurking tick-borne cancer. I gently move my hand, grab the black strong back of the angrily spreading cancer with my fingers, and put it in a bag.

On dark summer nights we fished for crayfish on the sandbars in the pond. With a bunch of blazing dry birch splinter, they cautiously walked around the shallows, took with their hands on the illuminated bottom of the crayfish creeping up to the shore. This night hunting gave us great and joyful pleasure.

In late autumn, when the water in the pond becomes clear and the autumn nights are long and dark, my father sometimes took me hunting with "illumination". With spears in hand, we rode out in a punt boat. At the bow of the boat, in an iron horned "goat", resinous pine firewood burned brightly. The boat glided silently over the motionless surface of the water. A fire blazed and smoked on the bow of the boat, illuminating the branches of shrubs and trees hanging over the water, the bottom of the pond overgrown with algae. An underwater fairy-tale kingdom opened up to my eyes. At the sandy bottom, illuminated by a fire, we saw long shadows of large sleeping fish. You need a good estimate, an accurate eye to stab a sleeping fish in the water with a spear. The stabbed fish were shaken from the spear to the bottom of the boat. Wide breams, long pikes, ides, slippery burbots came across. I will always remember this night hunt. The familiar pond seemed unrecognizable. Having traveled all night, we returned with booty. Not so much booty as a fabulous picture of the bottom lit by a fire pleased and excited me.

I. S. SOKOLOV-MIKITOV

Sixty years of active creative activity in our turbulent times, which has witnessed so many events and upheavals, is the result of the life of the remarkable Soviet writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov.

He spent his childhood in the Smolensk region, with its sweet, truly Russian nature. In those days, the old way of life and way of life was still preserved in the village. The boy's first impressions were festive festivities, village fairs. It was then that he organically merged with his native land, with its immortal beauty.

When Vanya was ten years old, he was sent to a real school. Unfortunately, this institution was distinguished by bureaucracy and the teaching went badly. In the spring, the smells of awakened greenery irresistibly attracted the boy beyond the Dnieper, to its banks, covered with a gentle haze of blossoming foliage.

Sokolov-Mikitov was expelled from the fifth grade of the school "on suspicion of belonging to student revolutionary organizations." It was impossible to enter anywhere with a "wolf ticket". The only educational institution that did not require a certificate of reliability was St. Petersburg private agricultural courses, where a year later he was able to enter, although, as the writer admitted, he did not feel a great attraction to agriculture, just as, incidentally, he never felt attracted to settlement, property, domesticity...

Boring coursework soon turned out to be not to the liking of Sokolov-Mikitov, a man with a restless, restless character. Having settled in Revel (now Tallinn) on a merchant fleet steamer, he wandered around the wide world for several years. I saw many cities and countries, visited European, Asian and African ports, made close friends with working people.

The First World War found Sokolov-Mikitov in a foreign land. With great difficulty he got from Greece to his homeland, and then he volunteered for the front, flew the first Russian bomber "Ilya Muromets", served in the sanitary detachments.

In Petrograd, he met the October Revolution, listened with bated breath to the speech of V. I. Lenin in the Tauride Palace. In the editorial office of Novaya Zhizn, he met Maxim Gorky and other writers. In these critical years for the country, Ivan Sergeevich becomes a professional writer.

After the revolution - a short job as a teacher of a unified labor school in his native Smolensk places. By this time, Sokolov-Mikitov had already published the first stories noticed by such masters as Bunin and Kuprin.

"Warm Land" - this is how the writer called one of his first books. And it would be difficult to find a more accurate, more capacious name! After all, this native Russian land is really warm, because it is warmed by the warmth of human labor and love.

By the time of the first polar expeditions, his stories about the campaigns of the flagships of the icebreaker fleet Georgy Sedov and Malygin, which laid the foundation for the development of the Northern Sea Route, date back. It was then that a bay named after the writer Sokolov-Mikitov appeared on one of the islands of the Arctic Ocean. The bay where he found the buoy of the deceased Ziegler expedition, whose fate was unknown until that moment, was also named after Ivan Sergeevich.

He spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian Sea, traveled around the Kola and Taimyr Peninsulas, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan mountains, the Northern and Murmansk regions. He wandered through the dense taiga, saw the steppe and the sultry desert, traveled all over the Moscow region. Each such trip not only enriched him with new thoughts and experiences, but was also captured by him in new works.

Hundreds of stories and novels, essays and sketches were given to people by this man of good talent. The pages of his books are illuminated with wealth and generosity of soul.

The well-known Bolshevik, editor of the Izvestiya newspaper, I. I. Skvortsov-Stepanov, told his employees: "As soon as you get anything from Ivan Sergeevich, send it to me right away. I love reading it, an excellent writer."

The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is close to Aksakov's, Turgenev's, and Bunin's style. However, his works show through his own special world: not third-party observation, but live communication with the surrounding life.

About Ivan Sergeevich in the encyclopedia it is written: "Russian Soviet writer, sailor, traveler, hunter, ethnographer." And although there is a point further, this list could be continued: a teacher, a revolutionary, a soldier, a journalist, a polar explorer.

Sokolov-Mikitov's books are written in a melodious, rich and at the same time very simple language, the same language that the writer learned in his childhood.

In one of his autobiographical notes, he wrote: “I was born and grew up in a simple working Russian family, among the forest expanses of the Smolensk region, its wonderful and very feminine nature. The first words I heard were bright folk words, the first music I heard were folk songs, by which the composer Glinka was once inspired.

In search of new pictorial means, back in the twenties, the writer turned to a peculiar genre of short (not short, but short) stories, which he successfully dubbed "bylitsa".

To an inexperienced reader, these "tales" may seem like simple notes from a notebook, made on the go, as a memory of the events and characters that struck him.

We have already seen the best examples of such short, non-fictional stories in Leo Tolstoy, Bunin, Veresaev, Prishvin.

Sokolov-Mikitov in his "bylits" comes not only from the literary tradition, but also from folk art, from the immediacy of oral stories.

For his "bylits" "Redheads and Blacks", "To Your Own Coffin", "Terrible Dwarf", "Grooms" and others are characterized by extraordinary capacity and accuracy of speech. Even in the so-called "hunting stories" he has a person in the foreground. Here he continues the best traditions of Aksakov and Turgenev.

Reading his short stories about Smolensk places (“On the River Bride”) or about birdhouses in the south of the country (“Lenkoran”), you are involuntarily imbued with sublime feelings and thoughts that the feeling of admiration for native nature turns into something else, more noble, - into a feeling patriotism.

"His creativity, having its source in a small homeland (i.e., the Smolensk region), belongs to the great Motherland, the great Soviet land with its vast expanses, innumerable riches and diverse beauty - from north to south, from the Baltic to the Pacific coast," Sokolov spoke of Mikitov A. T. Tvardovsky.

Nice and free in the summer in the forest.
The trees are covered with green leaves. It smells of mushrooms, ripe, fragrant strawberries.
Birds sing loudly. Orioles whistle, cuckoo, flying from tree to tree, restless cuckoos. Nightingales fill the bushes above the streams.
Animals roam under the trees in the forest. Bears roam, moose graze, cheerful squirrels frolic. A lynx robber is hiding in the dark thicket.
At the very top of the old spruce, in dense branches, goshawks-hawks built a nest. They see many forest secrets, fabulous miracles from a high dark peak.

summer dawn

The warm summer night is over. The dawn breaks over the forest.
A light mist still hangs over the forest fields. Cool dew covers the leaves of the trees.
The songbirds have already woken up. The cuckoo cuckooed and choked awake.
“Ku-ku! Kuk-kuk-kuk!" Her chirping sounded loudly through the forest.
Soon it will rise, the warm sun will dry the dew. Greeting the sun, the birds will sing even louder and the cuckoo will crow. Fog is rising over the meadow.
Here a tired hare is returning from a night fishing.
The little bunny has many enemies. A cunning fox chased him, a terrible owl frightened him, a lynx-robber caught him.
A little bunny left all the enemies.

Owl

Before sunrise, a night robber, an eagle owl, hid in a deep, dark hollow.
Spreading his huge wings, he flew silently over the forest edges all night long, looking out for prey. Even in the darkness of the night, his round evil eyes see well. A lot of animals and gullible birds were caught and eaten by an eared robber.
Afraid of daylight, bright light eagle owl. If birds see an owl during the day, a commotion begins in the forest. Magpies crackle loudly, busy jays scream. Crows and hawks flock to this cry from all sides. Even the smallest forest birds are going to judge and punish the night robber, blinded by the sunny, bright light.
An agile jumping squirrel saw in the hollow of an eared eagle owl, squealed piercingly to the whole forest:
"Robber! The robber lives here!

On clearing

The warm sun illuminated the forest clearing.
The night cold dew has dried up.
Calm and quiet in a deaf clearing in the forest. It smells of rosemary, ripe, fragrant strawberries.
An old capercaillie mother led her brood to the edge of the clearing. Like fluffy, soft balls, small wood grouse scattered. They catch midges in the grass, peck at sweet strawberries.
An old capercaillie flew up on a stump. He looks at the sky, then he looks into the forest. Will a goshawk appear, will a cunning fox run, will a nimble ermine flash through the tall grass?
A cautious capercaillie vigilantly guards its brood.
As in a real kindergarten, nimble, little capercaillie run around the forest clearing.

forest watchmen

The most sensitive and intelligent bird is the raven.
Clever crows, vigilant forest watchmen, see everything, smell everything.
Here, with prey in its teeth, burying itself in the bushes, a wolf ran through the forest. The vigilant crows saw the wolf, circled over the robber, shouted at the top of their raven throat:
"Karrr! Karrr! Beat the robber! Beat the robber!
The wolf heard this cry, pressed his ears, and quickly ran to his lair.
On the shore of a forest lake, crows noticed a fox. Quietly the gossip made her way into the hole. Ruined many bird nests, offended many chicks.
They saw crows and a fox:
"Karrr! Karrr! Catch, catch the robber!
Frightened, the fox hid in the dark forest. He knows that sensitive forest watchmen will not let her destroy nests, offend little chicks.

A fox

A fox dug a deep hole in a pine forest.
Even in early spring, blind little fox cubs were born here, in a hole.
Every day the fox leaves for prey, leaves cubs in the hole. The red fox cubs grew up, got stronger, began to emerge from the tight dark hole. It is free to play and frolic in the forest under the trees, somersaulting on soft moss.
Buried behind the trees, the old fox returns with prey.
Hungry fox cubs will greedily attack the prey.
They grow quickly, lively fox cubs eat a lot.

Above a river

Along the banks of the river is a pine forest.
The wind blows over the river. Noisy waves splash on the shore. White-haired lambs walk along the waves.
A huge white-tailed eagle soared over the waves. Holds a live, trembling fish in its claws.
Vigilant eagles are able to catch fish. From a great height, they rush to the waves like a stone, tenaciously seizing prey.
In the largest forests, on the tops of tall trees, eagles nest. A lot of prey is brought to gluttonous chicks.
Vigilant and strong eagles see far. Under the very clouds they hover on clear days. They can see well where the hare hid in the grass, with his ears flattened, where the fish splashed over the waves, where the cautious capercaillie mother led her brood to the forest clearing.

Lynx and lynx

A lynx stretched out under an old pine tree, basking in the sun.
Quiet in the deep forest. The lynx hears how a hazel grouse flutters from tree to tree, how a titmouse squeaks, swaying on a branch, a forest mouse rustles.
A small fluffy lynx climbed onto the back of a lynx. The old lynx is stretching, purring, playing with a small cheerful lynx.
At night, the lynx leaves for prey. Silently sneaks under the trees, catches birds and careless, timid hares.
No one will dodge the sharp claws of a lynx robber: neither a gaping white hare, nor an old black grouse and a heavy capercaillie, nor a dozing shy hazel grouse.
A lot of harm is done in the forest by an evil lynx robber.

Moose

Evening has come in the forest. The sun has set behind the tops of the trees.
An elk elk grazes on the edge of the swamp with her long-legged clumsy calf.
They ate their fill of juicy grass.
Annoying mosquitoes are ringing over the swamp. Moose fight off mosquitoes, shake their long ears.
To escape from mosquitoes, moose sometimes climb into the water. Neither water, nor large viscous swamps, nor deaf, impassable thickets are not afraid of strong elk.
Moose roam the forest everywhere - they cross swamps, swim across wide rivers and deep forest lakes.
Where people do not offend moose, they trustfully come out of the forest. Often people see moose on the outskirts of villages and cities. It happens that they wander into gardens and suburban parks.
Real hunters protect, do not shoot moose. They admire large, beautiful animals that do no harm to humans.

Summer night

It's a warm night in the forest
The moon shines on a clearing surrounded by forest. Night grasshoppers are chirping, nightingales are pouring in the bushes.
Long-legged, nimble corncrakes cry without rest in the tall grass.
“Whoa, whoa! Whoops, whoops! Whoops, whoops!" their loud hoarse cry is heard from all sides.
Bats fly silently through the air.
At the edge of the path, green lanterns of fireflies lit up here and there.
Quiet in the night forest. A hidden forest brook murmurs a little audibly. Fragrant smell of night beauties - violets.
Here he hobbled, crunched with a knot, going to fish, a white hare. Casting a light shadow on the clearing, an owl flew by and disappeared.
In the depths of the forest suddenly hooted and laughed, as in a terrible fairy tale, a scarecrow owl.
The eagle owl was frightened, woke up in the nest, a small forest bird squeaked timidly ...

All rights reserved. No part of the electronic version of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, including posting on the Internet and corporate networks, for private and public use, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

I. S. SOKOLOV-MIKITOV

Sixty years of active creative work in the turbulent 20th century, full of so many events and upheavals, is the result of the life of the remarkable Soviet writer Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov.

He spent his childhood in the Smolensk region, with its sweet, truly Russian nature. In those days, the old way of life and way of life was still preserved in the village. The boy's first impressions were festive festivities, village fairs. It was then that he merged with his native land, with its immortal beauty.

When Vanya was ten years old, he was sent to a real school. Unfortunately, this institution was distinguished by bureaucracy, and the teaching went badly. In the spring, the smells of awakened greenery irresistibly attracted the boy beyond the Dnieper, to its banks, covered with a gentle haze of blossoming foliage.

Sokolov-Mikitov was expelled from the fifth grade of the school "on suspicion of belonging to student revolutionary organizations." It was impossible to enter anywhere with a “wolf ticket”. The only educational institution that did not require a certificate of reliability was St. Petersburg private agricultural courses, where a year later he was able to enter, although, as the writer admitted, he did not feel a great attraction to agriculture, just as, incidentally, he never felt attracted to settlement, property, domesticity ...

Boring coursework soon turned out to be not to the liking of Sokolov-Mikitov, a man with a restless, restless character. Having settled in Reval (now Tallinn) on a merchant fleet steamer, he wandered around the wide world for several years. I saw many cities and countries, visited European, Asian and African ports, made close friends with working people.

Bunin and A. Kuprin.

"Warm Land" - this is how the writer called one of his first books. And it would be difficult to find a more accurate, more capacious name! After all, the native Russian land is really warm, because it is warmed by the warmth of human labor and love.

The stories of Sokolov-Mikitov about the campaigns of the flagships of the icebreaker fleet "Georgy Sedov" and "Malygin", which laid the foundation for the development of the Northern Sea Route, date back to the time of the first polar expeditions. On one of the islands of the Arctic Ocean, a bay was named after Ivan Sergeevich Sokolov-Mikitov, where he found the buoy of the dead Ziegler expedition, whose fate was unknown until that moment.

Sokolov-Mikitov spent several winters on the shores of the Caspian Sea, traveled around the Kola and Taimyr Peninsulas, Transcaucasia, the Tien Shan mountains, the Northern and Murmansk regions. He wandered through the dense taiga, saw the steppe and the sultry desert, traveled all over the Moscow region. Each such trip not only enriched him with new thoughts and experiences, but was also captured by him in new works.

Hundreds of stories and novels, essays and sketches were given to people by this man of good talent. The pages of his books are illuminated with wealth and generosity of soul.

The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is close to Aksakov's, Turgenev's, and Bunin's style. However, his works have their own special world: not third-party observation, but live communication with the surrounding life.

Sokolov-Mikitov's books are written in a melodious, rich and at the same time very simple language, the same language that the writer learned in his childhood.

In search of new visual means, the writer, back in the twenties of the last century, turned to a peculiar genre of short (not short, but short) stories, which he successfully dubbed bylits.

To an inexperienced reader, these tales may seem like simple notes from a notebook, made on the go, in memory of the events and characters that struck him.

We have already seen the best examples of such short non-fictional stories in L. Tolstoy, I. Bunin, V. Veresaev, M. Prishvin.

Sokolov-Mikitov in his stories comes not only from the literary tradition, but also from folk art, from the immediacy of oral stories.

For his bylits "Redheads and blacks", "To your own grave", "Terrible dwarf", "Groomsmen" and others are characterized by extraordinary capacity and accuracy of speech. Even in the so-called hunting stories, he has a person in the foreground. Here he continues the best traditions of S. Aksakov and I. Turgenev.

Reading Sokolov-Mikitov’s short stories about Smolensk places (“On the Bride River”) or about birdhouses in the south of the country (“Lenkoran”), one involuntarily gets imbued with sublime feelings and thoughts, a feeling of admiration for native nature turns into something else, more noble, - into feeling of patriotism.

“His creativity, having its source in a small homeland (that is, the Smolensk region), belongs to a large Motherland, our great land with its vast expanses, innumerable riches and diverse beauty - from north to south, from the Baltic to the Pacific coast,” said Sokolov-Mikitov A. Tvardovsky.

Not all people are able to feel and understand nature in an organic connection with the human mood, and only a few can paint nature simply and wisely. Sokolov-Mikitov possessed such a rare gift. This love for nature and for people who live in friendship with it, he was able to convey to his very young reader. Our preschool and school children have long been fond of his books: “Kuzovok”, “House in the Forest”, “Fox Subterfuges” ... And how picturesque are his stories about hunting: “On the capercaillie current”, “Tightening”, “First hunt” and others. You read them, and it seems that you yourself are standing on the edge of the forest and, holding your breath, follow the majestic flight of the woodcock or, in the early, predawn hour, listen to the mysterious and magical song of the capercaillie...

The writer Olga Forsh said: “You read Mikitov and wait: a woodpecker is about to knock over your head or a hare jumps out from under the table; how great it is, really told!”

The work of Sokolov-Mikitov is autobiographical, but not in the sense that he wrote only about himself, but because he always talked about everything as an eyewitness and participant in certain events. This gives his works a vivid persuasiveness and that documentary authenticity that attracts the reader so much.

“I was lucky to get close to Ivan Sergeevich in the early years of his literary work,” K. Fedin recalled. This was shortly after the Civil War. For half a century, he devoted me to his life so much that it sometimes seems to me that it has become mine.

He never set out to write his biography in detail. But he is one of those rare artists whose life, as it were, summed up everything that he wrote.

Kaleria Zhekhova

IN THE NATIVE LAND

Sunrise

Even in early childhood I had a chance to admire the sunrise. In the early spring morning, on a holiday, my mother sometimes woke me up, carried me to the window in her arms:

- Look how the sun plays!

Behind the trunks of old lindens, a huge flaming ball rose above the awakened earth. He seemed to swell, shone with a joyful light, played, smiled. My childish soul rejoiced. For the rest of my life I remember my mother's face, illuminated by the rays of the rising sun.

In adulthood, I have watched the sunrise many times. I met him in the forest, when before dawn the pre-morning wind passes above the tops of the head, one after another the pure stars go out in the sky, the black peaks are more and more clearly indicated in the lightened sky. There is dew on the grass. A cobweb stretched in the forest sparkles with many sparkles. Clean and transparent air. On a dewy morning, it smells like resin in a dense forest.

I saw the sunrise over my native fields, over a green meadow covered with dew, over the silver surface of the river. Pale morning stars, a thin sickle of the month, are reflected in the cool mirror of water. Dawn breaks in the east, and the water appears pink. As if in a steamy light haze, the sun rises above the earth to the singing of countless birds. Like the living breath of the earth, a light golden mist spreads over the fields, over the motionless ribbon of the river. The sun is rising higher. Cool transparent dew in the meadows shines like diamonds.

I observed the appearance of the sun on a frosty winter morning, when deep snow shone unbearably, a light frosty hoarfrost scattered from the trees. I admired the sunrise in the high mountains of the Tien Shan and the Caucasus, covered with sparkling glaciers.

The sunrise over the ocean is especially beautiful. Being a sailor, standing on watch, I watched many times how the rising sun changes its color: either it swells up with a flaming ball, then it is covered with fog or distant clouds. And everything around suddenly changes. Distant shores, crests of oncoming waves seem different. The color of the sky itself changes, covering the endless sea with a golden-blue tent. The foam on the crests of the waves seems to be golden. Gulls flying behind the stern seem golden. The masts shine with scarlet gold, the painted side of the ship glistens. You used to stand on watch at the bow of the ship, your heart filled with unspeakable joy. A new day is born! How many meetings and adventures he promises to a young happy sailor!

Residents of big cities rarely admire the sunrise. High stone masses of city houses cover the horizon. Even villagers wake up for the short hour of sunrise, the beginning of the day. But in the living world of nature, everything is awakening. On the edges of the forest, over the illuminated water, the nightingales sing loudly. Soar from the fields into the sky, disappearing in the rays of dawn, light larks. Cuckoos happily cuckoo, thrushes whistle.

Only sailors, hunters, people who are closely connected with mother earth, know the joy of a solemn sunrise when life awakens on earth.

My friends, readers, I strongly advise you to admire the sunrise, the pure early morning dawn. You will feel your heart fill with fresh joy. In nature, there is nothing more charming than early morning, early morning dawn, when the earth breathes maternal breath and life awakens.

Russian Winter

Good, pure Russian snowy winters. Deep snowdrifts sparkle in the sun. Large and small rivers hid under the ice. On a frosty, quiet morning, smoke rises into the sky in pillars above the roofs of village houses. Under the snow coat, gaining strength, the earth is resting.

Quiet and bright winter nights. Pouring the snow with a thin light, the moon shines. Fields and tree tops shimmer in the moonlight. The winter road is clearly visible. Dark shadows in the forest. The winter night frost is strong, tree trunks crackle in the forest. High stars are scattered across the sky. The Big Dipper shines brightly with a clear North Star pointing north. The Milky Way stretched from end to end across the sky - a mysterious heavenly road. In the Milky Way, Cygnus spread its wings - a large constellation.

There is something fantastic, fabulous in a moonlit winter night. I recall Pushkin's poems, Gogol's stories, Tolstoy, Bunin. Whoever had to drive on a moonlit night on winter country roads will probably remember his impressions.

And how beautiful is the winter dawn, the morning dawn, when the snow-covered fields and hillocks are illuminated by the golden rays of the rising sun and the dazzling whiteness will sparkle, sparkle! Unusual Russian winter, bright winter days, moonlit nights!

Once hungry wolves roamed the snowy fields and roads; foxes ran, leaving thin chains of footprints in the snow, looking for mice hiding under the snow. Even during the day one could see a mouse fox in the field. Carrying a fluffy tail over the snow, she ran through the fields and copses, with a sharp ear smelling mice hiding under the snow.

Wonderful sunny winter days. Expanse for skiers running on light skis on slippery snow. I did not like well-trodden ski tracks. It is difficult to see an animal or a forest bird near such a ski track, where a person runs in a chain after a person. On skis, I went into the forest alone. Skis gliding quickly, almost inaudibly over untouched snow. The pines raise their curly whitened tops to the high sky. White snow lies on the green prickly branches of sprawling fir trees. Under the weight of frost, young tall birches bent into an arc. Dark ant heaps are covered with snow. Black ants hibernate in them.

Full of life winter, it would seem, a dead forest.

Here a woodpecker tapped on a dry tree. Carrying a bump in his beak, he flew with a colorful handkerchief to another place - to his "forge", arranged in the fork of an old stump, deftly set the bump into his workbench and began to peck with his beak. Resinous scales flew in all directions. There are a lot of pecked cones lying around the stump. A nimble squirrel jumped from tree to tree. A large white snow cap fell from the tree, crumbling into snow dust.

On the edge of the forest, you can see black grouse sitting on birch trees. In winter they feed on birch buds. Wandering through the snow, picking black juniper berries. Cross-shaped traces of grouse paws are written between the bushes on the surface of the snow. On cold winter days, black grouse, falling from birches, burrow into the snow, into deep holes. A lucky skier sometimes manages to pick up black grouse hiding in the snow holes. One by one, in the diamond snow dust, birds fly out of the deep snow. Stop, admiring the marvelous spectacle.

Many wonders can be seen in the winter sleeping forest. A hazel grouse will fly by with noise or a heavy capercaillie will rise. All winter capercaillie feed on young pines with hard needles. Timber mice are scampering under the snow. Hedgehogs sleep under tree roots. They run through the trees, chasing squirrels, evil martens. A flock of red-breasted merry crossbills, dropping their snowy overhang, perched with a pleasant whistle on the branches of a spruce covered with resinous cones. You stand and admire how quickly and deftly they pull heavy cones, extracting seeds from them. A light trace of a squirrel stretches from tree to tree. Clinging to the branches, a gnawed cone fell off from above, fell to the feet. Raising my head, I see how the branch swayed, freed from gravity, how it jumped over, the nimble forest naughty hid in the dense peak. Somewhere in a dense forest, bears sleep in their lairs with an almost deep sleep. The stronger the frost, the stronger the bear sleeps. Horned moose roam in the aspen forest.

The surface of deep snowdrifts is covered with an intricate letter of animal and bird tracks. At night, a white hare, fattening in the aspen forest, ran through here, leaving round nutlets of droppings on the snow. Brown hares run through the fields at night, dig out winter bread, leave tangled tracks in the snow. No, no, yes, and he will sit down on his hind legs, his ears up, listening to the distant barking of dogs. In the morning, hares hide in the forest. They double and build their tracks, make long marks, lie down somewhere under a bush or spruce branch, head to their track. It is difficult to see a hare lying in the snow: he is the first to notice a person and quickly runs away.

Near the villages and ancient parks you see swollen red-throated bullfinches, and nimble, bold titmouse squeak near the houses. It happens that on a frosty day, tits fly into open windows or in the canopy of houses. I tamed the tits that flew into my little house, and they quickly settled down in it.

The crows left to spend the winter fly from tree to tree. Grey-headed jackdaws call to each other with womanish voices. Just under the window, a nuthatch flew in, sat on a tree, an amazing bird that can crawl upside down along the trunk. Sometimes a nuthatch, like tits, flies into an open window. If you do not move, do not frighten him, he will fly into the kitchen, picking up bread crumbs. Birds are hungry in winter. They forage in the crevices of tree bark. Bullfinches feed on seeds of plants wintering over the snow, wild rose berries, and stay near grain sheds.

It seems that the river has frozen under the ice, the river is sleeping. But there are fishermen on the ice by the holes. They are not afraid of frost, cold, piercing wind. Inveterate anglers get cold hands, but small perches come across on the hook. In winter, burbots spawn. They prey on dormant fish. Skilful fishermen in winter catch burbots in the spaced peaks and burrows, block the river with spruce branches. They catch burbots in winter and on hooks, on bait. In the Novgorod region, I knew an old fisherman who brought me live burbot every day. Delicious burbot ear and liver. But, unfortunately, there are few burbots left in the polluted rivers who love clean water.

And how beautiful in winter are forest lakes covered with ice and snow, frozen small rivers, in which life invisible to the eye continues! Aspen trees are good in winter with the finest lace of their bare branches against the background of a dark spruce forest. In some places, wintered berries turn red in the forest on mountain ash, bright clusters of viburnum hang.

March in the forest

In the riches of the calendar of Russian nature, March is listed as the first month of spring, a joyful holiday of light. The cold, blizzard February has already ended - “crooked roads”, as the people call it. According to the popular apt word, even "winter shows its teeth." In early March, frost often returns. But the days are getting longer, earlier and earlier the bright spring sun rises above the snowy shroud. Deep snowdrifts lie untouched in the forests and on the field. You will go out on skis - such unbearable whiteness will sparkle around!

The air smells like spring. Casting purple shadows on the snow, the trees stand motionless in the forest. Transparent and clear sky with high light clouds. Under the dark fir trees, the porous snow is sprinkled with fallen needles. A sensitive ear catches the first familiar sounds of spring. Here, almost above the head, a ringing drum trill was heard. No, this is not the creak of an old tree, as inexperienced city people usually think when they find themselves in the forest in early spring. This, having chosen a dry, sonorous tree, is drummed in spring by a forest musician - a motley woodpecker. If you listen carefully, you will certainly hear: here and there in the forest, closer and further, as if calling to each other, drums solemnly sound. This is how woodpecker drummers greet the arrival of spring.

Here, warmed by the rays of the March sun, a heavy white hat fell off the top of a tree by itself, crumbling into snow dust. And, as if alive, sways for a long time, as if waving a hand, a green branch, freed from winter shackles. A flock of spruce crossbills, whistling merrily, scattered like a wide red lingonberry necklace over the tops of fir trees hung with cones. Only a few observant people know that these cheerful, sociable birds spend the whole winter in coniferous forests. In the most severe cold, they skillfully arrange warm nests in thick boughs, take out and feed their chicks. Leaning on ski poles, you admire for a long time how nimble birds are picking cones with their crooked beaks, choosing seeds from them, how, circling in the air, light husks quietly fall onto the snow.

An almost invisible and inaudible life, accessible only to a keen eye and a sensitive ear, lives at this time a barely awakened forest. Here, dropping a gnawed cone, a light squirrel perched on a tree. Jumping from twig to twig, the titmouses are already spring-like shadows above the snowdrift. Flickering behind the trunks of trees, the reddish jay will silently fly by and disappear. A fearful hazel grouse will flutter, thunder and hide in the depths of a forest overgrown ravine.

Illuminated by the rays of the sun, the bronze trunks of pine trees rise, raising their sprawling peaks into the very sky. The greenish branches of bare aspens were intertwined in the finest lace. It smells of ozone, resin, wild rosemary, the hard evergreen branches of which have already appeared from a broken snowdrift near a high stump warmed by the March sun.

Festive, clean in the illuminated forest. Bright spots of light lie on branches, on tree trunks, on compacted dense snowdrifts. Gliding on skis, you used to go out onto a sunny, sparkling clearing surrounded by a birch forest. Unexpectedly, almost from under the very feet, in the diamond snow dust, black grouse begin to break out of the holes. All morning they fed on spreading, bud-strewn birch trees. One after another, red-browed black scythes, yellowish-gray female grouse, fly out resting in the snow.

On clear days, in the mornings, you can already hear the first spring muttering of lekking mowers. In the frosty air, their booming voices can be heard far away. But the real spring current will not begin soon. This is only a test of strength, sharpening weapons clad in black armor, red-browed fighters.

"Animal Stories"

Ants. There are a lot of ant heaps in our forest, but one anthill is especially high, larger than my six-year-old granddaughter Sasha. Walking through the forest, we go to him to observe the life of ants. A quiet, even rustle comes from an anthill on a fine day. Hundreds of thousands of insects swarm on the surface of its dome, dragging twigs somewhere, plugging and uncorking their many passages, pulling out white eggs-larvae to bask in the sun. Sasha plucks a blade of grass and sticks it into the anthill. Immediately, disgruntled irritated ants pounce on her. They push out a blade of grass and, bending, fire at it with caustic acid. If after that the blade of grass is licked, the taste of a sharp-smelling formic acid, similar to the acid of a lemon, remains on the lips. Dozens of narrow paths scatter from the ant city. In a continuous stream, ants are busily running along them in the tall grass.

One of the paths led us to the very bank of our river. There was a small tree growing over the cliff. Its branches and leaves were covered with ants. We carefully examined the tree. It turned out to be a lot of greenish aphids, a dense mass of motionless sitting on the underside of the leaves and at the base of the cuttings. The ants tickled the aphids with their antennae and drank the sweet juice that the aphids released. It was a “dairy” herd of ants. It is known how diverse the types of ants are. Large red forest ants are very different from the small black sweet-tooth ants that often climb into the sugar bowl in our forest house. Scientists have counted thousands of species of ants on earth. They all live in numerous societies. The largest of the ants reach a size of three centimeters. Returning home, Sasha asks him to read about ants in books. We learn about the amazing African tailor ants, building their nests from leaves glued around the edges with a special adhesive substance released by ant larvae, about wandering hunter ants, wandering armies of millions, consisting of harvester ants, worker ants and soldier ants. We learn that there are slave-owning ants that capture other ants as slaves, there are shepherd ants that grow “dairy” aphids in their nests, there are agricultural ants ... Some of the ants that live in hot countries sometimes do harm by cutting foliage of trees. Our wood ants are very useful. They loosen the soil, destroy forest pests and do a lot of sanitary work, removing the remains of dead animals and birds. There are, perhaps, no such people who would not see ants. But in their complex social life, far from everything is still known. Scientists studying ants still do not know how ants conspire among themselves, harmoniously dragging heavy objects that many times exceed their own weight, how they manage to maintain a constant temperature inside the urn. Many secrets have not yet been revealed in the life of ant colonies. A very long time ago, when my father first began to take me hunting, there was such a rare case.

We rode through the woods in a droshky. It was early in the morning, and there was heavy dew on the trees and grass. It smelled of mushrooms and pine needles. At a large tree, the father stopped the horse. “Look,” he said, pointing to a huge pile of ants that towered over the ferns. - There lies "ant oil". Almost at the top of the heap lay a small piece of some kind of light yellow substance, very similar to ordinary butter. We got off the droshky and began to examine the mysterious substance on which the ants ran. The surface of the “butter” was matte with many ant marks. My father told me that he had to find such “ant oil” on ant heaps, but rarely anyone manages to see it. We put a piece of “oil” in a mug that we took with us on a hunt, tied it with paper and hid it under a tree. On the way back we were going to take “ant oil”. In the evening we returned from hunting. The father took out a mug from under the tree and took off the paper. There is very little “oil” left in the mug - it has evaporated. The rest of the "ant oil" we brought home. In a warm room, it melted, became liquid and transparent. He smelled strongly of formic alcohol. The grandmother who lived with us rubbed her lower back with this “oil” and kept assured that the forest medicine helped a lot from the “lumbago” that tormented her. In all my long life, I never had to find the mysterious “ant oil” afterwards. I asked experienced people and familiar zoologists, looked into books, but the “ant oil”, which I saw with my own eyes as a child, remained a mystery.

Spiders. One summer I picked a small bouquet of wild flowers near our house - bluebells, buttercups, daisies and a simple gray porridge. I put the bouquet on the desk. A tiny azure spider crawled out of the bouquet, very similar to a living precious stone. The spider crawled from flower to flower, and I admired it for a long time. He either hesitantly descended to the very table on his invisible cobweb, then, as if frightened, he quickly got up. I offered my hand, and, touching it, the spider tightly tucked its paws in, pretended to be dead, completely became like a round precious stone rolling on my palm. I planted it on a bouquet of flowers and soon forgot about the azure spider. I continued to mind my own business. The bouquet of wild flowers on my table withered. I had to replace it with fresh flowers. It turned out that the tiny spider remained to live in my log room.

Sitting at work, I once saw a familiar azure spider descend from the ceiling on a thin, thin invisible cobweb, sorting through its greenish legs, above my desk. He then rose, like a skilled acrobat, on his invisible cobweb, then quickly descended, swaying over my manuscript. Since then, I have often seen an azure spider in my room. He descended over my table, and I said to him: - Hello, buddy, good morning! I have always watched spiders with curiosity: I liked these hardworking forest hunters-masters. You used to go, in the early hour of a quiet summer morning, into the forest to hunt and stop: such a wonderful web is hung on green branches, on stalks of tall grasses - all in diamond sparkling drops of morning dew. For a long time you admire the wonderful thin lace woven by a skilled spider master.

The master spider himself sits in the center of his web, patiently, like a real hunter-fisherman, waiting for prey to fall into his web: a shrill mosquito or a biting evil fly. He quickly rushes to the prey, tying it with his web. Many years ago I lived in a remote Smolensk village, among large forests, well known to me since childhood. Then I hunted a lot, I was strong and healthy, I liked to spend the nights in the forest by the hunting fire. I listened to the voices of birds and animals, I knew well the places where a lot of game was found - forest and marsh. In summer and winter, he hunted wolves that lived in deaf, impassable swamps; in spring, he went to grouse and capercaillie currents; Wandering through the forests with a gun, I carefully looked at the mysterious forest life, little known to inexperienced city people. Every morning I saw the sun rise over the forest, listened to the happy birds greet the sunrise in a friendly chorus. At night I looked at the high starry sky, listened to the wonderful quiet music of the early dawn. In the forest, I sometimes collected outlandish roots that looked like fabulous birds and animals, and put them in my bag along with hunting prey. The walls of my little rustic room were upholstered inside with spruce bark, very similar to expensive embossed leather. On the walls hung my guns, hunting equipment, outlandish forest finds, beautiful and tidy bird nests. In the late summer, when I went hunting every day, I put empty matchboxes in my pockets. In these boxes I collected the most skilled spider-masters that I liked from the forest. When I returned from hunting, I released them in my room. The spiders quickly ran to the corners. Some of them stayed with me to live, others left somewhere. On the ceiling and in the corners of the room hung wonderful fresh silver cobwebs. The guests who came to me marveled at my dwelling, shrugged their hands. My small room looked like a forest museum, like a forest fairy-tale hut. Of course, I didn’t have a dusty, neglected web. My spider tenants diligently hunted for dirty flies, for annoying mosquitoes. I could work quietly, sleep peacefully: my spider friends guarded me. A lot can be said about spiders. There are master spiders and hunters. There are spiders - swift runners. There are tiny pilot spiders that fly through the air on long cobwebs released from the abdomen: like real paratroopers and glider pilots, they fly over large spaces, fly over wide rivers. There are diving spiders. These spiders descend underwater to the bottom of shallow forest streams. Instead of a space suit, they carry a large bubble of air on their abdomen, which they breathe underwater. In hot countries, there are also evil, poisonous spiders, the bite of which is sometimes fatal. Spiders are very accurate in predicting the weather. You used to go looking for mushrooms - a long, viscous web sticks to your face, to your hands. This means that clear, good weather has been established for a long time. At the end of summer, meadows that have not yet been mowed are completely covered with the finest web of cobwebs. A countless army of little spiders worked here. One early autumn, I had to sail on a steamboat along the lower Volga. The shores were painted with an autumn color pattern. I remember that in the early morning I went on deck and gasped in surprise. Above the motionless surface of the Volga, a light web, illuminated by the rising sun over the Volga, floated and floated. A light, golden cobweb, as if woven from the air, covered the entire ship: white deck posts, wooden handrails, gratings, benches. The passengers had not yet woken up, and, standing on the deck of the ship, I alone admired the fabulous spectacle of the cobweb floating over the Volga, illuminated by the morning sun. Many people, especially women, are afraid and dislike spiders. They scream loudly if a spider crawls over a dress or bare arm, open their eyes wide, and wave their arms. Old pious grandmothers, I remember, told us in childhood like this: - If you kill a cross-spider, forty sins will be forgiven! Spiders are always called cruel, evil, greedy people. Comparison of unkind people with industrious clean craftsmen and hunters skillfully weaving their beautiful nets is unfair. Young friends! If you see a web hung by a spider in the forest, do not break it. Take a good look at how cleverly and diligently the industrious spider hunter hangs his nets and learn something from him. Chipmunk.At the very end of the summer, hunting on the banks of the Kama River, I lived with my friend, a forester, in a remote the Kama forest. Sitting at the open window, I saw how in a small forestry garden, almost next to the window, the heavy color of a ripening sunflower was swaying by itself. A small beautiful animal was sitting on a sunflower. He was busily pulling ripe sunflower seeds from their nests and stuffing cheek pouches with them. It was a chipmunk, a nimble and agile animal that looked like a small squirrel. Chipmunks live under trees, in shallow earthen burrows. In these burrows they arrange capacious pantries where they hide plentiful supplies: pine nuts, sunflowers, bread seeds. A fast chipmunk is always on the move. He runs through the branches of trees, over heaps of brushwood piled up in the forest. A live, very curious animal is easy to catch.

I saw how village guys catch chipmunks in the forest. In their hands they hold a light stick with a hair loop tied at the end. It is worth whistling into a birch bark or willow pipe - and a curious chipmunk runs out of its hole. It is not difficult for him to throw a light loop around his neck. In captivity, cheerful chipmunks take root quickly. They can be kept in a large cage, fed with nuts, seeds. They have a lot of fun chasing each other around the cage, and it's nice to admire their fun games and fights. Chipmunks in the forest have many fierce enemies. They are destroyed by birds of prey, domestic cats catch them, and bears find and ravage chipmunks in the forest. I am very pleased to remember the little chipmunks. I remember a deaf taiga forest, sunlit, green glades surrounded by tall trees and small animals that enliven the taiga wilderness and silence. hedgehogs . Have you ever heard hedgehogs talking to each other? Probably no one heard. But I heard. I'll tell you in order. In winter and summer, we live in Karacharovo on the banks of the river, in a small house, surrounded on all sides by forest. We go to the forest to watch and listen to how birds live and sing, how forest flowers bloom, insects fly and crawl. Going out on the porch at night to admire the starry sky, listen to night sounds and voices, I often heard someone running through tall grass under the lilac. I lit an electric flashlight and saw a big hedgehog running away. We often saw hedgehogs in the evenings when the sun was setting: in search of food, they fearlessly wandered around our house, picking up crumbs and what we left for them. Often hedgehogs came up to a large bowl of food, from which we fed our dogs - the good-natured black Beetle and the cunning Squirrel. Usually Squirrel began to bark touchily and furiously, and her phlegmatic son Zhuk stepped aside and was patiently silent. The hedgehogs climbed with their front paws into the dog's cup and, snorting softly, ate calmly. Several times I caught hedgehogs and brought them into the house. They were not at all afraid of people, they calmly ran around the rooms and did not try to curl up into a ball. I released them into the wild, and they continued to feed near our house, annoying the dogs. One dark summer night I was sitting at my desk in my room. The night was quiet, with only occasional faint distant sounds coming from the river. In the complete silence of the night under the floor, very quiet unfamiliar and pleasant voices were suddenly heard. These voices were similar either to a quiet conversation, or to the whisper of chicks awakened in the nest. But what kind of chicks could be in the underground? .. And these affectionate underground voices did not look like a mouse squeak, the vicious squeal of rats. For a long time I could not understand who was talking under my floor. After a while, I again heard in the underground the already familiar affectionate conversation. There, as it were, two mysterious creatures, unknown to me, were talking to each other. How do our kids sleep? said one gentle voice. “Thank you, our children are sleeping peacefully,” answered another gentle voice. And the mysterious voices fell silent. I thought for a long time, who is talking so affectionately under my desk in the underground? “Probably hedgehogs live there,” I thought. “The old hedgehog comes to his hedgehog and asks her about the little hedgehogs.” Every night I heard hedgehog voices in the underground and smiled: the hedgehog and the hedgehog talked so amicably! One evening, when the sun was setting across the river, my grandson called me through the open window. “Grandfather, grandfather,” he shouted, “come out quickly!” I went out onto the porch. My grandson showed me a whole family of hedgehogs calmly walking along a trodden path. An old big hedgehog walked ahead, followed by a hedgehog and tiny hedgehogs rolled in small lumps. Apparently, their parents took them out of the nest for a walk for the first time. Since then, every evening the old hedgehogs and hedgehogs went out for a walk on the path. We left milk in a saucer for them. The hedgehogs calmly drank milk together with a kitten that lived and grew up with us. This went on for several days. Then the hedgehogs went into the forest, and we rarely saw them. At night, they still came to our house, drank milk and ate from a dog cup, but I no longer heard hedgehog gentle voices in the underground. Everyone has seen and knows hedgehogs. They are very gentle and meek animals. They do not harm anyone and are not afraid of anyone, They sleep during the day and go hunting at night. They destroy harmful insects, fight with rats and mice, bite poisonous snakes. For the winter, they arrange small comfortable dens for themselves under the roots of trees. On their thorns, they drag soft moss and dry leaves into their dens. All winter hedgehogs fall asleep. Their small hidden lairs are covered with deep snowdrifts, and hedgehogs sleep peacefully all winter. They wake up in early spring, when the snow melts in the forest, go hunting. Hedgehogs soon get used to people and become tame. In the neighboring pioneer camp, a whole herd of hedgehogs was divorced. Every night they come from the forest to the pioneer canteen and enjoy the food that the pioneers leave for them. Where hedgehogs live, there are neither mice nor rats. Once upon a time, I also had a hand hedgehog. During the day, he climbed into the shaft of an old felted boot, and at night he went out to prey. I often woke up from the small clatter and noise that the hedgehog made at night. Two or three times I managed to watch him catch mice. With extraordinary speed, the hedgehog rushed at the mouse that appeared in the corner of the room and immediately dealt with it. Frankly, he caused me a lot of anxiety, prevented me from sleeping at night and behaved unscrupulously. Despite all the troubles, we became very good friends.

Me and my guests really liked some hedgehog funny tricks. Coming out of the night shelter, he diligently sniffed and looked at every crack, picked up small crumbs on the floor. There was something hilariously funny in his movements, in his walk, in his little muzzle covered with gray hair, in his small black and intelligent eyes. Sometimes I would put it on the table and slap the board loudly with my palm. The hedgehog almost instantly curled up into a prickly gray ball. For a long time he remained motionless. Then he began to slowly, quietly unfold. From the sharp gray spines a small funny and displeased muzzle showed. He sniffed and looked around. An expression of the former good-natured calmness appeared on the muzzle. Much has been written and said about hedgehogs. They tell how cunning foxes hunt hedgehogs. The fox, curled up in a prickly ball, gently rolls off the steep bank into the water, where the hedgehog quickly turns around, and the fox easily cracks down on him. Some smart dogs do the same with hedgehogs.

Squirrels. Which of you, who had to be in the forest, did not see this light and agile animal? You are walking along a forest path, picking up mushrooms in a basket and suddenly you hear a sharp ticking loud sound. This is playing, merry nimble squirrels frolic on a tree. You can admire for a long time how they chase each other, rushing through the branches and along the trunk of a tree, sometimes upside down. Squirrels don't harm anyone. Squirrels live in coniferous forests in winter and summer. For the winter, they carefully store food in hollows. In summer and autumn, mushroom caps are dried, deftly stringing them on bare tree branches.

I have found squirrel mushroom stores in the forest more than once.

Sitting under a tree in a dense forest, I once saw a red squirrel jumping on the ground. In her teeth she carried a large, heavy bunch of ripe forest nuts. Squirrels know how to choose the ripest nuts. They hide them in deep hollows and unerringly find their reserves in winter. The usual food of squirrels is the seeds of coniferous trees. In the forest on the snow under the trees you can see in winter the husks of spruce and pine cones gnawed by squirrels. Sitting high on a tree branch, holding a cone in their front paws, squirrels quickly gnaw seeds out of it, dropping scales spinning in the air, throwing a gnawed resinous rod onto the snow. Depending on the harvest of pine and spruce cones, squirrels roam long distances. On the way, they swim across wide rivers, at night they run through crowded cities and towns. Squirrels floating on the water lift their fluffy tails high. They can be seen from afar. The squirrel can be easily tamed and kept in captivity. I once had a friend who was an archaeologist and book lover. In his large room lived a nimble, cheerful squirrel. She brought a lot of worries and troubles to the book-loving owner. She tirelessly rushed around the bookshelves, it happened that she gnawed at the bindings of expensive books. I had to put the squirrel in a wire cage with a wide rotating wheel. On this wire wheel, the squirrel rushed indefatigably. Squirrels need constant movement, which they are used to in the forest. Without such constant movement, living in captivity, squirrels get sick and die. Squirrels molt in autumn and spring.

For the summer they dress in a light red coat, in late autumn this red coat becomes gray, thick and warm.

Squirrels build cozy, warm and durable nests, similar to closed houses woven from thin branches. These houses are usually built in the forks of dense and tall coniferous trees, it is difficult to see them from the ground. Inside the squirrel's house is covered with a soft bedding. There, squirrels hatch and feed their little squirrels.

The most formidable enemy of the squirrel is the marten. Strong and angry martens mercilessly pursue squirrels, catch them and eat them, destroy their nests ... Most recently, last winter, two squirrels appeared every day at the window of our forest house. We threw small pieces of black bread into the snow through the window. The squirrels picked them up and climbed a thick dark fir-tree growing under the window. Sitting on a branch, holding a piece of bread in their front paws, they quickly ate it. Gray-headed jackdaws often quarreled with our squirrels, every day flying under the window of our house to feast on the treat prepared for them. Passing one day along a path in the forest, the wife saw a familiar squirrel with a bread crust in its mouth. She was running away from two jackdaws persistently pursuing her, trying to take away the bread. Surprisingly beautiful traces of squirrels in the forest on freshly fallen clean snow. These footprints stretch from tree to tree in a clear and light fluffy pattern. Squirrels now run from tree to tree, then climb to the peaks covered with heavy clusters of cones. Having fluffed out a light tail, they, shaking off the snow overhang, easily jump from branch to branch of neighboring trees. Flying squirrels are sometimes found in Siberian forests. These small forest animals have a light web between their front and hind legs. They easily jump, as if flying from tree to tree. I only once managed to see flying squirrels in our Smolensk forests. They lived in a deep hollow of an old tree. I found them there by accident. otters. Early in the morning I passed by the bank of a familiar quiet river. The sun had already risen, and there was complete silence. On the bank of a wide and quiet backwater I stopped, lay down on a meadow and lit a pipe. Funny birds whistled and flew in the bushes. White lilies and yellow water lilies were in full bloom all over the backwater. Broad round leaves floated on the surface of still water. Light dragonflies flew and landed above the water lilies, swallows circled in the sky. High, high, almost under the whitest clouds, a hawk-buzzard soared with spread wings. There was a smell of flowers, cut hay, and high sedge on the banks. Suddenly, something slapped once and twice in the middle of a quiet pool, and I saw the head of an otter that surfaced, swimming towards the shore between motionless water lilies. With a live caught fish in its mouth, the otter swam towards the thick bushes that covered the shore. I sat without moving, saw how the otter got out of the water and disappeared under the bushes. I have never seen a live secretive otter in the wild. Sometimes only I saw the tracks of a cautious predator on the wet coastal sand. Otters usually live near deaf and quiet forest rivers, where there are a lot of fish. They feed exclusively on fish, are very good at diving, and remain under water for a long time.

The otter is a very beautiful animal. Warm and light otter fur is highly valued. A captured young otter is easy to tame.

Even in early childhood, I knew a man - a forest ranger who served with my father's master. This man had a pet otter. He took her hunting with him, and she ran after him like an ordinary dog. Sometimes he would send a pet otter into the water. In front of our eyes, she dived and brought a live caught fish to the shore at the feet of the owner. Otters survived only in the most remote and untouched places. Otters live very secretively, they are difficult to see and catch.

Ermine. Who does not know and has not heard about this beautiful animal, which even in the most recent times lived in our country almost everywhere, from the Far North to the far south? ... Ermine is a very mobile predatory animal. During the day, the stoat is hard to see. In winter, its paired light traces are clearly visible on pure snow. Weasels hide in underground burrows under the roots of old trees, usually along the banks of rivers and streams, in ravines overgrown with forests. It happens that stoats live near villages, hiding under barns and residential buildings. At night, they often climb into chicken coops, arrange cruel reprisals against sleeping chickens and roosters there. After the war, in the vicinity of Leningrad and in the city itself, I saw many traces of stoats in the snow, hiding in potholes and deep pits left after explosions of mines and shells. In the far north, brave stoats are almost not afraid of a person.

Many years ago I had a chance to visit the Lapland Reserve. In early spring I lived on the banks of the forest river Verkhnyaya Chuna, which flowed into a deep lake, still covered with thick ice. I lived all alone in a small house, cut down by the hands of the reserve staff. Instead of a stove in the corner of the house, there was a wide hearth made of stones, in which I kindled a fire. I slept on hard log beds, in a sleeping bag made of warm reindeer skins. At the mouth of the river where the beavers lived, a small polynya formed by spring with fast-flowing clear water. In this polynya, I caught silver graylings with a lure, gathering in great numbers at the clean sandy bottom. With the fish I caught, I returned to the house, near which lay a pile of large stones, and began to clean the fish. Each time, a light and fast ermine jumped out of a pile of stones. I threw the offal of cleaned fish on the snow, and he quickly dragged them to his shelter under the stones. So I met and became friends with my ermine neighbor.

After a while, he began to come to my house himself, where I cooked delicious fish soup on the fire, ate the bones and heads of the fish I had cooked.

One night he climbed into my sleeping bag and we slept peacefully with him. Living in a small house, I watched spring come in the northern region, watched the beavers wintering in their huts covered with snowdrifts, watched the wolverine robber, sometimes, in search of food, coming up to my window. Swans came to the lake in early spring. Beautifully arching their long necks, they swam in an open hole, sometimes going out onto the ice. The ermine, accustomed to me, brightened up my lonely life. Already in other times, traveling around the Taimyr Peninsula, I often had to observe impudent stoats. They boldly swam across the wide Taimyr Lake, where they were sometimes swallowed by large loach fish, similar to salmon. Opening the loaches caught in the net, we found swallowed stoats in their stomachs. Stoats were very clever at dodging our sled dogs, and even the fastest and most agile dog rarely managed to catch a stoat. As a child, I often observed stoats who lived underground and in outbuildings in rural outbuildings. Seeing a person, they quickly and imperceptibly disappeared.

Hare. It was many years ago. Early in the morning I was returning from a distant grouse current. Having hardly crossed the burnt marshy swamp, I chose a convenient place, sat down to rest by a large green stump, very similar to an easy chair. It was quiet in the forest, the sun had risen. I lit my pipe and, lounging at the stump, putting the gun on my knees, began to listen to the sounds. One could hear the cranes rustling in the marsh, the snipe lekking in the gilded sky. Somewhere nearby, a hazel grouse thundered and whistled. In the spring I never shot hazel grouse, but I never parted with the old bone squeaker from yellowed hare bone. I liked to whistle with the hazel grouses, to look closely at the perky cockerels flying up to the whistle, with spread wings and tails, running briskly over the decks and bumps almost at my feet. While smoking my pipe, whistling with flying hazel grouses, I suddenly saw behind the tree trunks a white hare quietly hobbling right at me. Tired, he returned to his bed after a fun night's adventures. With short leaps, he quietly hobbled along the reddish moss hummocks. On his wet thighs, shreds of faded winter trousers dangled comically. I sat without moving, without moving a finger, merging with the high green stump. When the hare ran up quite close, almost to my knees, I moved a little and said quietly: “Yeah, I got you, Kosoy!” My God, what happened to the hare, how he caught himself, how his short tail flickered between the bumps! Loudly laughing, I shouted after the hare: - Flee, Oblique, quickly! Every hunter has a lot of memories of unexpected encounters and incidents in the forest. Usually such hunters talk about their successful shots, about the game they shot and got, about the work of smart dogs. In my long hunting life, I shot a lot of large and small game, hunted wolves and bears more than once, but - strange to say - a simple meeting with a hare hare was remembered more than the most successful and lucrative hunts. It’s as if I still see the forest, a quiet morning, I hear the whistling of hazel grouses, I clearly see a white hare, its wet trousers. Flee, brother Oblique, to good health! foxes. Last summer, an emergency happened near our forest house. Early in the morning, my wife called to me on the porch, anxiety was heard in her voice. I went out the door and at the steps of the porch I saw a fox. She stood, calmly looked at us and seemed to be waiting for a treat. I have never seen a cautious, shy fox come close to a person. Usually they hide in the forest and it is difficult for even an experienced hunter to see a live fox up close.

Our fox stood completely calm, trustingly looking at us. Her beautiful fluffy tail was stretched out, graceful thin paws did not move. I looked with surprise at the unexpected guest, said to my wife: “Come on, throw her a piece of meat!” The wife brought a small piece of raw meat from the kitchen and threw it at the fox's feet. The chanterelle calmly took and ate the meat. Without understanding anything, I said to my wife: “Try throwing her a piece of sugar. The fox ate the white piece of sugar just as calmly. For a long time I could not understand - where did the unusual guest come from at our house, and finally guessed. Behind the forest, two or three kilometers away, a large pioneer camp has recently been built. Pioneers who come from Moscow rest in this camp in summer. Once I was in the camp, reading my stories to the guys. They showed me a small corner of a young naturalist surrounded by iron mesh. There, tame squirrels and birds lived in small cages, as well as a red fox, which the guys fed from their hands. Apparently, when leaving for the city, the pioneers released a fox brought from the Moscow zoo into the wild. The fox, not accustomed to freedom, went to look for a man. Our forest house was the first on her way.

The fox lived at our house for several days. During the day, she disappeared - perhaps climbing underground or hiding in an empty dog kennel near the barn. In the mornings and evenings she went free, and we fed her. She was friendly with our red cat, and they often ate out of the same cup. Sometimes the fox spent the night on a small terrace near my room.

One day my wife left a pot of cold soup on the terrace table. The chanterelle opened the lid and ate all the soup at night. Many fables and fables have been told about foxes. In folk tales, the fox is usually depicted as a cunning beast that deceives gullible birds and animals. There is no doubt that foxes living in the wild often catch gaping large birds, occasionally drag domestic ducks and chickens, and love hares - hare and hare. Like many animals, foxes arrange pantries. The foxes cannot eat the caught hare in one go and diligently bury the remaining meat in the snow. Foxes remember their pantries and, when there is no prey, they eat up the meat hidden in reserve. They destroy bird nests, twisted on the ground, catch teenage chicks that do not know how to fly well. But the most common food of foxes is forest and field mice. They feed on hares and mice in winter when there is deep snow. Even during the day, you can see a mouse fox in an open field. Carrying its fluffy tail over the snow, the fox runs through the snowy fields and snowdrifts, listening to every sound. Her hearing and intuition are amazing. Under a deep snowdrift, she hears the squeak of mice and unmistakably gets them ... I rarely had to hunt foxes, but their cunning habits are well known to me. More than once I found fox holes in the forest. Often they settle in the burrows of economic badgers, which they persistently survive. Foxes themselves dig deep holes, usually in sandy slopes covered with trees and bushes. Near residential fox holes, one can always see many bones of birds and animals, with which adult foxes feed growing fox cubs. Hiding in the bushes, you can see young foxes playing near the hole.

As a guest once at a water mill that stood on the banks of a forest river, every morning I saw the miller's young dog playing in the meadow with a red fox coming out of the forest. There were no fights between them. Caught young foxes get used to humans very quickly. They can be led around the city on a chain, like domestic dogs are driven. Experienced people assured me that even in a big city, after fresh powder had fallen, among the cat and dog tracks on the boulevards one could also see fox tracks. I don’t know if such stories can be trusted, but I fully admit that a free-living woman released in the city can feed herself ...

Badgers. Once there were a lot of badgers in our Russian forests. They usually settled in remote places, near swamps, rivers, streams. For their holes, badgers chose high, dry, sandy places that were not flooded with spring waters. Badgers dug deep burrows. Tall trees grew above their burrows. There were several exits and entrances from the holes. Badgers are very neat and smart animals. In winter, they, like hedgehogs and bears, hibernate and leave their holes only in spring. I remember, as a child, my father took me to look at residential badger holes. In the evening we hid behind the trunks of trees, and we managed to see how the old short-legged badgers come out to hunt, how the little badgers play and fuss around the very holes. In the forest in the mornings, I had to meet badgers more than once. I watched the badger slithering carefully along the tree trunks, sniffing the ground, looking for insects, mice, lizards, worms, and other meat and vegetable food. Badgers are not afraid of poisonous snakes, they catch them and eat them. Badgers do not go far from their burrow. They graze, hunt near an underground dwelling, not relying on their short legs. The badger walks quietly on the ground, and it is not always possible to hear his steps. The badger is a harmless and very useful animal. Unfortunately, there are almost no badgers in our forests now. Rarely where inhabited badger burrows have been preserved in the deep forest.

The badger is an intelligent forest animal. He doesn't harm anyone. Involuntarily, the badger is hard to get used to, and in zoos during the day badgers usually sleep in their dark kennels. It is very interesting, having found holes, to follow the life of their inhabitants. I have never hunted peaceful badgers, but sometimes I found their forest dwellings. Live badgers were rarely seen. You used to walk from a capercaillie current, the sun rises over the forest. You will stop so that, sitting on a stump, you will listen and look carefully. You will see a badger, cautiously making his way along the trunks of trees and sniffing every inch of the earth. The paws of a badger look like small, strong shovels. In case of danger, the badger can quickly burrow into the ground. When badgers dig their burrows, they rake the ground with their front legs, and push it out with their hind legs. They dig holes as fast as machines. If you have to find live badger holes in the forest, do not touch them, do not ruin or kill useful and good-natured animals. The badger has become a very rare animal in our forests. It is not difficult to completely destroy this beast.

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