Viktor Astafiev. Memo for schoolchildren "how to complete test tasks" We were approaching the alpine meadows of the Urals

We were approaching the alpine meadows of the Urals, where collective-farm cattle were driven to summer pasture. Taiga thinned out. The forests were entirely coniferous, warped by the winds and the northern cold. Only here and there among the sparse-legged spruce, fir and larch trees stirred the timid foliage of birch and aspen, and between the trees unfurled branches of ferns twisted by snails. A herd of calves and gobies was drawn into the old clearing littered with trees. Gobies and calves, and we, too, walked slowly and wearily, with difficulty climbed over the knotty deadwood. In one place, a small tubercle appeared on the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved, flowering blueberries. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray petals, and they somehow imperceptibly crumbled. Then the berry will begin to grow, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating. The blueberry is delicious when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries. There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails up, the children who drove the cattle with us screamed. I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters often call it a kapalukha) running in circles along it with spread wings. - Nest! Nest! the guys shouted. I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I did not see any nest anywhere. - Yes, here it is, here it is! - showed the children to the green snag, near which I was standing. I looked, and my heart began to beat with fright - I almost stepped on the nest. No, it was not twisted on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root resiliently protruding from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and from above, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was ajar in the direction of a blueberry hillock. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. Eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot. - Let's take it! The boy next to me sighed. - What for? - Yes so! - And what will happen to the kapalukha? You look at her! Kapalukha tossed to the side. Her wings are still outstretched, and she is chasing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with spread wings, covered her future children, kept them warm. That is why the bird's wings ossified from immobility. She tried and couldn't fly. Finally flew up to a spruce branch, sat down over our heads. And then we saw that her stomach was bare right down to the neck, and on her bare, bumpy chest, the skin often, often trembled. It was from fright, anger and fearlessness that the bird's heart was beating. “But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare stomach, so that she can give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who approached. - It's like our mother. She gives us everything. Everything, everything, every drop ... - one of the guys said sadly, in an adult way, and, probably embarrassed by these gentle words uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let's go catch up with the herd! And everyone ran merrily from the Kapalukhin's nest. Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching out her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she flew off the tree smoothly, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze. Her eyes began to be covered with a dark film. But she was all alert, all tense. Kapalukha's heart was beating with strong shocks, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will appear in a week or two, and maybe in a few days. And when they grow up, when they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga on a ringing dawn April morning, maybe in this song there will be words, incomprehensible to us bird words about a mother who gives everything to children, sometimes even her life.

Help me find an argument for essay 15.3 on the topic "Devotion".

We were approaching the alpine meadows of the Urals, where we drove the collective farm cattle for summer pasture.
Taiga thinned out. The forests were all coniferous, warped by the winds and the northern cold. Only here and there among the sparse-legged spruce, fir and larch trees stirred the timid foliage of birch and aspen, and between the trees unfurled branches of ferns twisted by snails.
A herd of calves and gobies was drawn into the old clearing littered with trees. Gobies and calves, and we, too, walked slowly and wearily, with difficulty climbed over the knotty deadwood.
In one place, a small tubercle appeared on the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved, flowering blueberries. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray petals, and they somehow imperceptibly crumbled. Then the berry will begin to grow, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.
The blueberry is delicious when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.
There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails up, the children who drove the cattle with us screamed.
I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters often call it a kapalukha) running in circles along it with spread wings.
- Nest! Nest! the guys shouted. I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I did not see any nest anywhere.
- Yes, here it is, here it is! - showed the children to the green snag, near which I was standing.
I looked, and my heart began to beat with fright - I almost stepped on the nest. No, it was not twisted on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root resiliently protruding from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and from above, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was ajar in the direction of a blueberry hillock. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. Eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.
- Let's take it! The boy next to me sighed.
- What for?
- Yes so!
- And what will happen to the kapalukha? You look at her! Kapalukha tossed to the side. Her wings are still outstretched, and she is chasing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with spread wings, covered her future children, kept them warm. That is why the bird's wings ossified from immobility. She tried and couldn't fly. Finally flew up to a spruce branch, sat down over our heads. And then we saw that her stomach was bare right down to the neck, and on her bare, bumpy chest, the skin often, often trembled. It was from fright, anger and fearlessness that the bird's heart was beating.
“But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare stomach, so that she can give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds,” said the teacher who approached.
- It's like our mother. She gives us everything. Everything, everything, every drop ... - one of the guys said sadly, in an adult way, and, probably embarrassed by these gentle words uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let's go catch up with the herd!
And everyone ran merrily from the Kapalukhin's nest. Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching out her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she flew off the tree smoothly, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.
Her eyes began to be covered with a dark film. But she was all alert, all tense. Kapalukha's heart was beating with strong shocks, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will appear in a week or two, and maybe in a few days.
And when they grow up, when they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga on a ringing dawn April morning, maybe in this song there will be words, incomprehensible to us bird words about a mother who gives everything to children, sometimes even her life.

(1) We were approaching the Alpine Ural meadows, where collective farm cattle were driven to summer pasture.

(2) In one place, a small tubercle stood out on the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved flowering blueberries.

(3) There was a noise at the blueberry tubercle. (4) The calves ran with their tails up, the children who drove the cattle with us screamed.

(5) I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie running around it with spread wings (hunters often call it a kapalukha).

(6)- Nest! (7) Nest! the guys shouted. (8) I began to look around, feel the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I didn’t see any nest anywhere.

(9) - Yes, here, here! - showed the children to the green snag, near which I was standing.

(10) I looked, and my heart trembled - I almost stepped on the nest. (11) No, it was not twisted on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root elastically protruding from the ground. (12) Overgrown with moss on all sides and from above, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was ajar towards the blueberry tubercle. (13) In the hut, a moss-insulated nest. (14) There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. (15) Eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs.

(16) I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

(17) - Let's take it! The boy next to me sighed.

(18) - Why?

(19) - Yes!

(20) - And what will happen to the kapalukha? (21) You look at her!

(22) Kapalukha rushed to the side. (23) Her wings are still scattered, and she chalked the ground with them. (24) She sat on the nest with spread wings, covered her unborn children, kept warm for them. (25) That is why the bird's wings ossified from immobility. (26) She tried and could not take off. (27) Finally flew up onto a spruce branch, sat down over our heads. (28) And then we saw that her stomach was bare up to the neck and the skin often trembled on her bare, bumpy chest. (29) It was from fright, anger and fearlessness that a bird's heart beat.

(30) - But she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare stomach, so that she can give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds, - said the teacher who approached.

(31) - It's like our mother. (32) She gives us everything. (ЗЗ) Everything, everything, every drop ... - one of the guys said sadly, in an adult way, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: (34) - Well, let's go catch up with the herd !

(35) And everyone ran merrily from the Kapalukhin's nest. (Z6) Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching out her neck after us. (37) But her eyes no longer followed us. (38) They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she smoothly flew off the tree, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

(39) Her eyes began to be covered with a dark film. (40) But she was all alert, all springy. (41) The heart of the kapalukha beat with strong shocks, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, of which big-headed capercaillie will appear in a week or two, or maybe in a few days.

(42) And when they grow up, when they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga on a clear April morning, maybe in this song there will be words, incomprehensible to us bird words about a mother who gives everything to children, sometimes even her life.

(According to V. Astafiev)

Viktor Petrovich Astafiev (1924-2001) - Russian Soviet writer. The most important themes of Astafiev's work are military and rural. One of his first works was a school essay, then turned by the writer into the story "Vasyutkino Lake". The first stories of the author were published in the magazine "Change". The novels The Last Bow, The Tsar-Fish, the novels Till Next Spring, The Snows Are Melting, Cursed and Killed brought fame.

The test form of checking the knowledge of schoolchildren requires them to be attentive and clear organization when performing tasks. To help teachers who want to teach younger students the algorithm for completing test tasks, this memo is offered.

Memo student

"How to do tests"

Read the text of the task (question) carefully. Underline in itmain words.

For example. What numberis not solution to this equation?

2. Use the method of eliminating incorrect answers! For thischeck each answer to see if it fits the task condition ? Delete incorrect answers. This way you can rule out incorrect answers.

3. Necessarily use the method of eliminating incorrect answers! - in some tasks there is more than one. A 2 or more correct answers.

If you work with text

1. Read each task in turn and contactwith a pencil to the text tofind the correct answer in the text .

If you find it difficult to complete any task, you can move on to the next one. At the end of the work, return to the missed tasks to try to cope with them.

Enter the selected answers in the margins, crossing out the number of the answer, as shown below.

After work, if there is time, check the correctness of all work.

We invite the teacher to collectively say the memo, after which, usingacceptance of comments by students complete the given tasks as training.

Test tasks for literary reading.

Read the text.

Kapalukha

We were approaching the alpine meadows of the Urals, where collective-farm cattle were driven to summer pasture. Taiga thinned out. The forests were all coniferous, warped by the winds and the northern cold. Only here and there among the sparse-legged firs, firs and larches stirred the timid foliage of birch and aspen, and between the trees unfurled branches of ferns twisted by snails.

A herd of calves and gobies was drawn into the old clearing littered with trees. Gobies and calves, and we, too, walked slowly and wearily, with difficulty climbed over the knotty deadwood. In one place, a small tubercle appeared on the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved, flowering blueberries. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray petals, and they somehow imperceptibly crumbled. Then the berry will begin to grow, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating. The blueberry is delicious when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails up, the children who drove the cattle with us screamed. I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters often call it a kapalukha) running in circles along it with spread wings.

- Nest! Nest! the guys shouted. I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I did not see any nest anywhere.

- Yes, here it is! - showed the children to the green snag, near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fright - I almost stepped on the nest. No, it was not twisted on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root resiliently protruding from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and from above, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was ajar in the direction of a blueberry hillock. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. Eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

- Let's take it! The boy next to me sighed.

- What for?

- Yes so!

- And what will happen to the kapalukha? You look at her.

Kapalukha tossed to the side. Her wings are still outstretched, and she is chasing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with spread wings, covered her future children, kept them warm. That is why the bird's wings ossified from immobility. She tried and couldn't fly. Finally flew up to a spruce branch, sat down over our heads. And then we saw that her stomach was bare right down to the neck, and on her bare, bumpy chest, the skin often, often trembled. It was from fright, anger and fearlessness that the bird's heart was beating.

- And she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare stomach, so that she can give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds, ”said the teacher who approached.

- It's like our mom. She gives us everything. Everything, everything, every drop ... - one of the guys said sadly, in an adult way, and, probably embarrassed by these tender words, uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly:

- Well, let's go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily from the Kapalukhin's nest. Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching out her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she flew off the tree smoothly, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze. Her eyes began to be covered with a dark film. But she was all alert, all tense. The heart of the kapalukha was beating with strong shocks, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, of which in a week or two, and maybe in a few days big-headed capercaillie will appear. And when they grow up, when they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga on a ringing dawn April morning, maybe in this song there will be words, incomprehensible to us bird words about a mother who gives everything to children, sometimes even her life.

V.P. Astafiev

Part A

1. Define the genre of the work:

story

fable

story

true story

2. On whose behalf is the story written?

1) on behalf of the children

3) from a third party

4) on behalf of the teacher

3. Where did the heroes of the work go?

1) to the taiga

2) to blueberries

3) to the clearing

4) in the pasture

4. Why did the children decide to take bird eggs from the nest?

1) to raise chicks at home

2) to eat eggs

3) just out of curiosity

4) to compare them with chicken

5. Why did the kapalukha make its nest near the blueberry tubercle under the root of the tree?

1) to peck blueberries

2) so that the chicks do not fall out of the nest

3) to make it easier to find food on the ground

4) to hide the nest from prying eyes

What does the expression "the bird was all taut" mean?

she was sitting on a spring

she bounced like on springs

she was very tense

she got very tense

Which expression is used figuratively?

water drop

a drop of heat

dew drop

fog drop

What is another name for kapalukha?

grouse

hen

capercaillie

cuckoo

Why did the kapalukha have a bare belly?

this is a feature of this species of birds

kapalukha had a molt

kapalukha plucked its fluff for the nest

feathers on the stomach wiped on the ground

Which proverb expresses the main idea of ​​the text?

Not to see evil - not to appreciate good.

Listen to good people, they will lead you on the path.

3) Do not throw yourself at an affectionate word, do not be angry at a rude one.

4) He did good, but it turned out evil.

Part B

Write the numbers next to the names of the parts to make an outline of the text.

Anxious kapalukha.

The discovery of the guys in the blueberry.

Driving cattle to pasture.

The kapalukha returned to the nest.

Write in words from the text why “the wings of the bird stiffened from immobility”?

_____________________________________________

Write out from the text with whom the guys compared the kapaluha.

_______________________________________________________________

Prove with words from the text that the kapalukha was a caring mother.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Read the passage. Replace the underlined word with a synonym.

And when they grow up, on a ringing April morningdrop my first song."

Write down your proposal.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Part C

Why do you think the kapalukha ran along the blueberry hillock with spread wings? Write down 2-3 sentences.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Class

We were approaching the alpine meadows of the Urals, where collective-farm cattle were driven to summer pasture.

Taiga thinned out. The forests were all coniferous, warped by the winds and the northern cold. Only here and there among the sparse-legged spruce, fir and larch trees stirred the timid foliage of birch and aspen, and between the trees unfurled branches of ferns twisted by snails.

A herd of calves and gobies was drawn into the old clearing littered with trees. Gobies and calves, and we, too, walked slowly and wearily, with difficulty climbed over the knotty deadwood.

In one place, a small tubercle appeared on the clearing, completely covered with pale-leaved, flowering blueberries. The green pimples of future blueberry berries released barely noticeable gray petals, and they somehow imperceptibly crumbled. Then the berry will begin to grow, turn purple, then turn blue and, finally, turn black with a grayish coating.

The blueberry is delicious when ripe, but it blooms modestly, perhaps more modestly than all other berries.

There was a noise at the blueberry hillock. The calves ran with their tails up, the children who drove the cattle with us screamed.

I hurried to the hillock and saw a capercaillie (hunters often call it a kapalukha) running in circles along it with spread wings.

Nest! Nest! the guys shouted.

I began to look around, feeling the blueberry mound with my eyes, but I did not see any nest anywhere.

Yes, here it is! - showed the children to the green snag, near which I was standing.

I looked, and my heart began to beat with fright - I almost stepped on the nest. No, it was not twisted on a hillock, but in the middle of a clearing, under a root resiliently protruding from the ground. Overgrown with moss on all sides and from above, too, covered with gray hairs, this inconspicuous hut was ajar in the direction of a blueberry hillock. In the hut there is a nest insulated with moss. There are four pockmarked light brown eggs in the nest. Eggs are slightly smaller than chicken eggs. I touched one egg with my finger - it was warm, almost hot.

Let's take it! The boy next to me sighed.

And what will happen to the kapalukha? You look at her!

Kapalukha tossed to the side. Her wings are still outstretched, and she is chasing the ground with them. She sat on the nest with spread wings, covered her future children, kept them warm. That is why the bird's wings ossified from immobility. She tried and couldn't fly. Finally flew up to a spruce branch, sat down over our heads. And then we saw that her stomach was bare right down to the neck, and on her bare, bumpy chest, the skin often, often trembled. It was from fright, anger and fearlessness that the bird's heart was beating.

And she plucked the fluff herself and warms the eggs with her bare stomach, so that she can give every drop of her warmth to the nascent birds, ”said the teacher who approached.

It's like our mom. She gives us everything. Everything, everything, every drop ... - one of the guys said sadly, in an adult way, and, probably embarrassed by these gentle words uttered for the first time in his life, he shouted displeasedly: - Well, let's go catch up with the herd!

And everyone ran merrily from the Kapalukhin's nest. Kapalukha was sitting on a branch, stretching out her neck after us. But her eyes no longer followed us. They aimed at the nest, and as soon as we moved away a little, she flew off the tree smoothly, crawled into the nest, spread her wings and froze.

Her eyes began to be covered with a dark film. But she was all alert, all tense. The heart of the kapalukha was beating with strong shocks, filling four large eggs with warmth and life, from which big-headed capercaillie will appear in a week or two, and maybe in a few days.

And when they grow up, when they drop their first song into the big and kind taiga on a ringing dawn April morning, maybe in this song there will be words, incomprehensible to us bird words about a mother who gives everything to children, sometimes even her life.