Konstantin Paustovsky

The lake near the shores was covered with heaps of yellow leaves. There were so many of them that we could not fish. The lines lay on the leaves and did not sink.

I had to go on an old boat to the middle of the lake, where the water lilies were blooming and the blue water seemed black as tar. There we caught multi-colored perches, pulled out pewter roach and ruff with eyes that looked like two small moons. The pikes stroked at us with their teeth as small as needles.

It was autumn in the sun and fog. Distant clouds and thick blue air could be seen through the flowing forests.

At night, in the thickets around us, low stars moved and trembled.

A fire was burning in our parking lot. We burned it all day and night long to chase away the wolves - they howled quietly along the distant shores of the lake. They were disturbed by the smoke of the fire and the cheerful human cries.

We were sure that the fire frightens the animals, but one evening in the grass, by the fire, a beast began to sniff angrily. He was not visible. He anxiously ran around us, rustled with tall grass, snorted and got angry, but did not even stick his ears out of the grass. The potatoes were fried in a pan, a pungent tasty smell came from it, and the animal, obviously, came running to this smell.

A boy came to the lake with us. He was only nine years old, but he tolerated spending the night in the forest and the cold autumn dawns well. Much better than we adults, he noticed and told everything. He was an inventor, this boy, but we adults loved his inventions very much. We could not, and did not want to prove to him that he was telling a lie. Every day he came up with something new: he heard the fish whispering, then he saw how the ants arranged for themselves a ferry across a stream of pine bark and cobwebs and crossed in the light of the night, unprecedented rainbow. We pretended to believe him.

Everything that surrounded us seemed extraordinary: the late moon shining over the black lakes, and high clouds like mountains of pink snow, and even the usual sea noise of tall pines.

The boy was the first to hear the snort of the beast and hissed at us to shut up. We are quiet. We tried not even to breathe, although our hand involuntarily reached for the double-barreled gun - who knows what kind of animal it could be!

Half an hour later, the beast stuck out a wet black nose, similar to a pig's patch, out of the grass. The nose sniffed the air for a long time and trembled with greed. Then a sharp muzzle with piercing black eyes appeared from the grass. Finally the striped skin appeared. A small badger emerged from the thicket. He tucked his paw and looked at me closely. Then he snorted in disgust and took a step towards the potatoes.

It roasted and sizzled as it sprinkled with boiling bacon. I wanted to shout to the animal that it would burn itself, but I was late: the badger jumped to the frying pan and stuck its nose into it ...

It smelled of burnt leather. The badger yelped and, with a desperate cry, threw himself back into the grass. He ran and shouted at the whole forest, broke bushes and spat in indignation and pain.

Confusion began on the lake and in the forest: frightened frogs screamed without time, birds were alarmed, and a pound pike struck like a cannon shot near the shore.

In the morning, the boy woke me up and told me that he himself had just seen a badger treating his burnt nose.

I didn't believe it. I sat down by the fire and sleepily listened to the morning voices of birds. In the distance, white-tailed sandpipers whistled, ducks quacked, cranes chirped in dry bogs - marshars, and doves cooed quietly. I didn't want to move.

The boy pulled my hand. He was offended. He wanted to prove to me that he had not lied. He invited me to go see how the badger is being treated. I reluctantly agreed. We carefully made our way into the thicket, and among the thickets of heather I saw a rotten pine stump. He was drawn to mushrooms and iodine.

A badger stood near the stump, with its back to us. He opened the stump and stuck his burnt nose into the middle of the stump, into the wet and cold dust. He stood motionless and chilled his unhappy nose, while another little badger ran and snorted around. He worried and pushed our badger into the stomach with his nose. Our badger growled at him and kicked with its furry hind legs.

Then he sat down and wept. He looked at us with round and wet eyes, moaned and licked his sore nose with his rough tongue. He seemed to ask for help, but we could do nothing to help him.

Since then, the lake - it was called Nameless before - we called the Lake of the Foolish Badger.

A year later, I met a badger with a scar on his nose on the shores of this lake. He sat by the water and tried to catch with his paw the dragonflies thundering like tin. I waved my hand at him, but he sneezed angrily in my direction and hid in a thicket of lingonberries.

Since then, I have not seen him again.

Belkin fly agaric

N.I. Sladkov

Winter is a harsh time for animals. Everyone is preparing for it. The bear and the badger feed fat, the chipmunk stores pine nuts, and the squirrel stores mushrooms. And everything, it would seem, is clear and simple here: bacon, and mushrooms, and nuts, oh, how useful in winter!

Just completely, but not with everyone!

For example, a squirrel. She dries mushrooms on knots in autumn: russula, honey agarics, mushrooms. The mushrooms are all good and edible. But among the good and edibles you suddenly find ... a fly agaric! Will stumble on a knot - red, with a white speck. Why is the fly agaric squirrel poisonous?

Maybe young squirrels unknowingly dry the fly agarics? Maybe when they get wiser, they don't eat? Maybe a dry fly agaric becomes non-poisonous? Or maybe a mushroom dried for them something like a medicine?

There are many different assumptions, but there is no exact answer. That would be to find out and check everything!

White-fronted

A.P. Chekhov

The hungry wolf got up to go hunting. Her cubs, all three, were fast asleep, huddled together, and warmed each other. She licked them and went.

It was already the spring month of March, but at night the trees were cracking from the cold, as in December, and as soon as you stick your tongue out, it began to pinch strongly. The wolf was of poor health, suspicious; she shuddered at the slightest noise and kept thinking about how someone at home would not offend the cubs without her. The smell of human and horse footprints, stumps, stacked firewood, and a dark, damp road frightened her; It seemed to her that people were standing behind the trees in the dark and dogs were howling somewhere behind the forest.

She was no longer young and her instinct had weakened, so that, it happened, she took a fox's track for a dog's and sometimes even, deceived by her instinct, lost her way, which had never happened to her in her youth. Due to her poor health, she no longer hunted calves and large rams, as before, and already walked far around horses and foals, and ate only carrion; She had to eat fresh meat very rarely, only in the spring, when she stumbled upon a hare, took away her children or climbed to the peasants in the barn where the lambs were.

Four versts from her lair, by the post road, there was a winter hut. Here lived the watchman Ignat, an old man of about seventy, who kept coughing and talked to himself; usually he slept at night, and during the day he wandered through the forest with a single-barrel rifle and whistled at hares. He must have served in mechanics before, because every time, before stopping, he shouted to himself: "Stop, car!" and before going further: "Full speed ahead!" With him was a huge black dog of unknown breed, named Arapka. When she ran far ahead, he shouted to her: “ Reverse! " Sometimes he sang and at the same time staggered strongly and often fell (the wolf thought it was from the wind) and shouted: "Off the rails!"

The wolf remembered that a ram and two bright ones grazed near the winter hut in summer and autumn, and when she ran past not so long ago, she heard that they were bleating in the shed. And now, approaching the winter hut, she realized that it was already March and, judging by the time, there must be lambs in the stable. She was tormented by hunger, she thought about how greedily she would eat the lamb, and from such thoughts her teeth clicked and her eyes shone in the darkness, like two lights.

Ignat's hut, his barn, stable and well were surrounded by high snowdrifts. It was quiet. Arapka must have slept under the barn.

The she-wolf climbed onto the barn over the snowdrift and began to rake the thatched roof with her paws and muzzle. The straw was rotten and crumbly, so that the wolf almost fell through; she suddenly smelled of warm steam, the smell of manure and sheep's milk right in the face. Below, feeling cold, a lamb bleated gently. Jumping into the hole, the wolf fell with her forepaws and chest on something soft and warm, must have been on a ram, and at this time in the barn something suddenly squealed, barked and burst into a thin, howling voice, the sheep dashed against the wall, and the wolf, frightened, grabbed that first caught in the teeth, and rushed out ...

She ran, straining her strength, and at that time Arapka, already sensing the wolf, howled furiously, the disturbed chickens cackled in the hut, and Ignat, coming out on the porch, shouted:

Full speed ahead! I went to the whistle!

And it whistled like a car, and then - ho-ho-ho! .. And all this noise was repeated by the forest echo.

When little by little all this calmed down, the wolf calmed down a little and began to notice that her prey, which she held in her teeth and dragged through the snow, was heavier and as if harder than lambs usually are at this time, and smelled as if differently, and some strange sounds were heard ... The wolf stopped and put her load on the snow to rest and start eating, and suddenly jumped back in disgust. It was not a lamb, but a puppy, black, with a large head and high legs, of a large breed, with the same white spot all over its forehead, like Arapka's. Judging by his manners, he was an ignorant, simple mongrel. He licked his battered, wounded back and, as if nothing had happened, wagged his tail and barked at the wolf. She growled like a dog and ran away from him. He's behind her. She looked around and snapped her teeth; he stopped in bewilderment and, probably, having decided that it was she playing with him, stretched out his muzzle towards the winter quarters and burst into ringing joyful barking, as if inviting his mother Arapka to play with him and the wolf.

It was already daylight, and when the wolf made her way to her with a thick aspen grove, every aspen tree was clearly visible, and the black grouse were already waking up and beautiful roosters often fluttered, disturbed by the careless jumping and barking of the puppy.

“Why is he running after me? - thought the wolf with annoyance. "He must want me to eat him."

She lived with the cubs in a shallow pit; about three years ago, during a strong storm, a tall old pine tree was uprooted, which is why this hole was formed. Now at the bottom of it were old leaves and moss, bones and bull's horns, which the wolf cubs played with, were lying there and then. They were already awake and all three, very similar to each other, stood side by side at the edge of their pit and, looking at the returning mother, wagged their tails. Seeing them, the puppy stopped at a distance and looked at them for a long time; noticing that they were also looking at him attentively, he began to bark at them angrily, as if they were strangers.

It was already dawn and the sun had risen, the snow sparkled all around, and he still stood at a distance and barked. The cubs sucked their mother, shoving her with their paws into the skinny belly, while she was gnawing a horse bone, white and dry; She was tormented by hunger, her head ached from the barking of the dogs, and she wanted to rush at the intruder and tear him apart.

Finally the puppy got tired and hoarse; Seeing that they were not afraid of him and did not even pay attention, he began timidly, now squatting, now jumping, approaching the wolf cubs. Now, in daylight, it was already easy to see him ... His white forehead was large, and on his forehead there was a bump, which is the case with very stupid dogs; the eyes were small, blue, dull, and the expression on the whole muzzle was extremely stupid. Approaching the wolf cubs, he stretched out his wide paws forward, put his muzzle on them and began:

I, I ... nga-nga-nga! ..

The cubs did not understand anything, but waved their tails. Then the puppy hit one wolf cub on the big head with his paw. The wolf cub also hit him on the head with a paw. The puppy stood sideways to him and looked at him sideways, wagging his tail, then suddenly rushed from his place and made several circles on the ice. The cubs chased him, he fell on his back and lifted his legs up, and the three of them attacked him and, screaming with delight, began to bite him, but not painfully, but as a joke. The ravens sat on a tall pine tree, and looked from above at their struggle, and were very worried. It became noisy and fun. The sun was already hot in spring; and the roosters, now and then flying over the pine tree, blown down by the storm, seemed emerald in the glare of the sun.

Usually wolves teach their children to hunt by letting them play with their prey; and now, looking at how the cubs chased the puppy across the ice and fought with it, the wolf thought:

"Let them learn."

Having played enough, the cubs went into the pit and went to bed. The puppy howled a little with hunger, then also stretched out in the sun. And when they woke up, they began to play again.

All day and in the evening, the wolf recalled how last night a lamb bleated in the barn and how it smelled of sheep's milk, and from her appetite she clicked her teeth at everything and did not stop gnawing an old bone with greed, imagining that it was a lamb. The cubs sucked, and the puppy, who was hungry, ran around and sniffed the snow.

"Shoot him ..." - decided the wolf.

She went up to him, and he licked her in the face and whined, thinking that she wanted to play with him. In the old days she ate dogs, but the puppy smelled strongly of dog, and, due to her poor health, she no longer tolerated this smell; she felt disgusted, and she walked away ...

It got colder by nightfall. The puppy got bored and went home.

When the wolf cubs were fast asleep, the wolf went hunting again. As on the previous night, she was alarmed by the slightest noise, and she was frightened by stumps, wood, dark, lonely standing juniper bushes, looking like people in the distance. She ran to the side of the road, along the crust. Suddenly something dark flashed far ahead on the road ... She strained her eyes and ears: in fact, something was going ahead, and even measured steps were heard. Is it a badger? She cautiously, barely breathing, taking everything aside, overtook the dark spot, looked back at it and recognized it. It was a puppy with a white forehead that was slowly returning to his winter quarters at a leisurely pace.

“As if he didn’t interfere with me again,” the wolf thought, and quickly ran forward.

But the winter quarters were already close. She again climbed onto the barn through the snowdrift. Yesterday's hole had already been filled with spring straw, and two new slopes stretched across the roof. The wolf began to work quickly with her legs and muzzle, looking around to see if the puppy was walking, but she barely smelled of warm steam and the smell of manure when she heard a joyful, flooded barking from behind. The puppy is back. He jumped to the wolf's roof, then into the hole and, feeling at home, warm, recognizing his sheep, barked even louder ... Arapka woke up under the barn and, sensing a wolf, howled, chickens cackled, and when Ignat appeared on the porch with with its single barrel, the frightened wolf was already far from the winter hut.

Fuyt! - whistled Ignat. - Fyuyt! Drive with full steam!

He pulled the trigger - the gun misfired; he let it down again - again a misfire; he lowered it a third time - and a huge sheaf of fire flew out of the barrel and a deafening "boo!" boo!". He had a hard hit in the shoulder; and, taking a gun in one hand and an ax in the other, he went to see why the noise ...

A little later he returned to the hut.

Nothing ... - answered Ignat. - It's an empty matter. Our White-fronted with the sheep got into the habit of sleeping, warm. Only there is no such thing as a door, but he strives everything, as it were, into the roof. The other night, I dismantled the roof and left for a walk, you scoundrel, and now he came back and turned the roof open again. Stupid.

Yes, the spring in my brain has burst. I do not like death for stupid people! - Ignat sighed, climbing onto the stove. - Well, man of God, it's too early to get up, let's sleep in full swing ...

And in the morning he called White-fronted to him, painfully ruffled him by the ears, and then, punishing him with twigs, kept repeating:

Walk through the door! Walk through the door! Walk through the door!

Faithful troy

Evgeny Charushin

My friend and I agreed to go skiing. I went for him in the morning. He lives in a big house - on Pestel Street.

I went into the yard. And he saw me from the window and waves his hand from the fourth floor.

Wait, they say, I'll go out now.

So I'm waiting in the yard, at the door. Suddenly, from above, someone like a thunder on the stairs.

Knock! Thunder! Tra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta! Something of wood is knocking and cracking on the steps, like a rattle.

"Is it possible, - I think, - this is my friend with skis and with poles fell off, counting the steps?"

I went closer to the door. What's rolling down the stairs? I'm waiting.

And then I looked: a spotted dog, a bulldog, was driving out of the door. Bulldog on wheels.

His body is strapped to a toy car - such a truck, "gas".

And the bulldog steps on the ground with its front paws - it runs and rolls itself.

The muzzle is snub-nosed, wrinkled. Feet are thick, widely spaced. He drove out the door, looked angrily around. And then the ginger cat was crossing the yard. As a bulldog rushes after a cat - only the wheels bounce on stones and ice. He drove the cat into the basement window, and he drives around the yard - sniffs the corners.

Then I pulled out a pencil and a notebook, sat down on the step and started drawing it.

My friend came out with skis, saw that I was drawing a dog, and said:

Draw it, draw it - this is not an ordinary dog. He became his cripple because of his courage.

How so? - I ask.

My bulldog friend stroked the folds on the back of his neck, gave him candy in the teeth and said to me:

Let's go, I'll tell you the whole story on the way. A wonderful story, you just won't believe it.

So, - said the friend, when we left the gate, - listen.

His name is Troy. In our opinion, this means - faithful.

And they called him that correctly.

Once we all left for the service. In our apartment, everyone serves: one as a teacher at school, the other as a telegraph operator at the post office, wives also serve, and children study. Well, we all left, and Troy was left alone - to guard the apartment.

I tracked down some thief-thief that our flat remained empty, turned the lock out of the door and let us be the boss.

He had a huge bag with him. He grabs everything that is horrible and puts it in the bag, grabs it and shoves it. My gun got into the bag, new boots, teacher's watch, Zeiss binoculars, children's boots.

About six jackets, and service jackets, and all kinds of jackets, he pulled on himself: there was no room in the bag, it seemed, there was.

And Troy is lying by the stove, silent - the thief does not see him.

Troy has such a habit: he will let anyone in, but let him out - so no.

Well, the thief robbed us all clean. He took the most expensive, the best. It's time for him to leave. He pushed to the door ...

And Troy stands at the door.

Stands silent.

And what about Troy's face?

And looking for a heap!

Troy stands there, frowning, eyes bloodshot, and a fang sticking out of his mouth.

The thief was rooted to the floor. Try to get away!

And Troy grinned, hid and began to advance sideways.

Quietly approaching. He always so intimidates the enemy - whether a dog or a person.

The thief, evidently from fear, was completely stunned, to rush to

to no avail, and Troy jumped on his back and bit all six jackets on him at once.

Do you know how bulldogs grab with a stranglehold?

Their eyes will be closed, their jaws will be slammed shut, and they will not open their teeth, even kill them here.

A thief rushes about, rubs his back against the walls. He throws flowers in pots, vases, books from the shelves. Nothing helps. Troy hangs on it like a weight.

Well, the thief finally guessed, he somehow got out of his six jackets and all this sack together with the bulldog once outside the window!

This is from the fourth floor!

The bulldog flew headfirst into the yard.

Goo sprinkled to the sides, rotten potatoes, herring heads, all sorts of rubbish.

Troy pleased with all our jackets right into the garbage pit. Our garbage dump was piled to the brim that day.

After all, that's what happiness! If he blurted out on the stones, he would have broken all the bones and would not have uttered a sound. Immediately he would die.

And here, as if someone had framed him a trash heap on purpose - it's still easier to fall.

Troy emerged from the trash heap, climbed out - as if whole at all. And just think, he still managed to intercept the thief on the stairs.

Again grabbed him, in the leg this time.

Then the thief himself betrayed himself, yelled, howled.

The tenants ran to howl from all the apartments, and from the third, and from the fifth, and from the sixth floor, from all the back stairs.

Hold the dog. Oh-oh-oh! I'll go to the police myself. Tear off only the damn thing.

Easy to say - tear off.

Two people were pulling the bulldog, and he just waved his stump-tail and clamped his jaw even tighter.

The tenants from the first floor brought a poker, thrust Troy between the teeth. Only in this manner did they unclench his jaws.

The thief went out into the street - pale, disheveled. Shaking all over, holding on to the policeman.

Well, the dog, - he says. - Well, the dog!

The thief was taken to the police. There he told how it was.

I come in the evening from the service. I see the lock in the door is turned. There is a bag with our good lying in the apartment.

And in the corner, in his place, Troy lies. All dirty, smelly.

I called Troy.

And he can't even come up. Creeps, squeals.

His hind legs were taken away.

Well, now we take him out for a walk with the whole apartment. I adapted the wheels for him. He himself rolls on wheels on the stairs, and can no longer climb back. We need to lift the little car from behind. Troy steps over with his front paws.

So now the dog on wheels lives.

Evening

Boris Zhitkov

The cow Masha is going to look for her son, a calf Alyoshka. You can't see him anywhere. Where did he go? It's time to go home.

And the calf Alyoshka ran over, tired, lay down in the grass. The grass is tall - you can't see Alyoshka.

The cow Masha was frightened that her son Alyoshka was gone, but how he will blur that there is strength:

At home, Masha was milked, they drank a whole bucket of fresh milk. We poured Alyosha into a bowl:

Drink, Alyoshka.

Alyoshka was delighted - he had wanted milk for a long time, - he drank everything to the bottom and licked the bowl with his tongue.

Alyoshka got drunk, he wanted to run around the yard. As soon as he ran, suddenly a puppy jumped out of the booth - and well, bark at Alyoshka. Alyoshka was frightened: this is, of course, a terrible animal, if it barks so loudly. And he started to run.

Alyoshka ran away, and the puppy did not bark anymore. It became quiet all around. Alyoshka looked - no one was there, everyone went to bed. And I wanted to sleep myself. I lay down and fell asleep in the yard.

Masha the cow fell asleep on the soft grass.

The puppy fell asleep at his booth - he was tired, barking all day.

The boy Petya also fell asleep in his crib - he was tired, he ran all day.

And the bird fell asleep long ago.

She fell asleep on a branch and hid her head under the wing so that it was warmer to sleep. I'm tired too. I flew all day, caught midges.

Everyone fell asleep, everyone is asleep.

Only the night wind does not sleep.

It rustles in the grass and rustles in the bushes

Volchishko

Evgeny Charushin

A wolf lived with his mother in the forest.

Once my mother went hunting.

And the wolf was caught by a man, put it in a sack and brought it to the city. I put the bag in the middle of the room.

The bag did not move for a long time. Then a wolf floundered in it and got out. He looked in one direction - he was frightened: a man was sitting, looking at him.

I looked in the other direction - the black cat was snorting, puffing, itself twice as thick, barely standing. And next to it the dog bares its teeth.

The wolf was completely afraid. Climbed back into the bag, but do not fit - lies empty bag on the floor like a rag.

And the cat puffed up, puffed up and how it hisses! He jumped onto the table, knocked down the saucer. The saucer broke.

The dog barked.

The man shouted loudly, “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"

The little wolf huddled under the chair and began to live and tremble there.

There is an armchair in the middle of the room.

The cat looks down from the back of the chair.

The dog runs around the chair.

A man in an armchair is smoking.

And the wolf is barely alive under the chair.

At night, the man fell asleep, and the dog fell asleep, and the cat closed his eyes.

Cats - they do not sleep, they only doze.

The wolf got out to look around.

He walked, walked, sniffed, and then sat down and howled.

The dog barked.

The cat jumped on the table.

The man sat on the bed. He waved his hands and screamed. And the wolf again climbed under the chair. He began to live there quietly.

In the morning the man left. Poured milk into a bowl. The cat and the dog began to lap milk.

A wolf climbed out from under the chair, crawled to the door, and the door was open!

From the door to the stairs, from the stairs to the street, from the street across the bridge, from the bridge to the garden, from the garden to the field.

And behind the field there is a forest.

And in the forest there is a mother-wolf.

And now the wolf has become the wolf.

Thief

Georgy Skrebitsky

Once we were given a young squirrel. She very soon became completely tame, ran through all the rooms, climbed on cabinets, shelves, and so deftly - she would never drop anything, never break anything.

Huge antlers were nailed over the sofa in my father's study. The squirrel often climbed over them: it used to climb onto the horn and sit on it, like on a twig of a tree.

She knew us guys well. As soon as you enter the room, a squirrel jumped from somewhere from the closet right onto the shoulder. This means - she asks for sugar or candy. She loved sweets very much.

Sweets and sugar in our dining room, in the buffet, lay. They were never locked up because we children did not take anything without asking.

But somehow my mother calls us all into the dining room and shows an empty vase:

Who took this candy from here?

We look at each other and are silent - we do not know which of us did it. Mom shook her head and said nothing. And the next day, the sugar from the buffet disappeared and again no one confessed that they had taken it. At this point, my father got angry, said that now everything would be locked up, but he would not give us sweets all week.

And the squirrel, along with us, was left without sweets. It used to jump up on the shoulder, rub its face against the cheek, pull its teeth behind the ear - asks for sugar. Where can I get it?

Once after dinner I sat quietly on the sofa in the dining room and read. Suddenly I saw: a squirrel jumped on the table, grabbed a crust of bread in her teeth - and on the floor, and from there on the cabinet. A minute later, I looked, again climbed onto the table, grabbed the second crust - and again on the cabinet.

“Wait,” I think, “where is she carrying all of her bread?” I set up a chair and looked at the closet. I see - my mother's old hat is on. I lifted it up - that's it for you! Something that just isn't under it: sugar, sweets, bread, and various bones ...

I - straight to my father, show: "This is who our thief is!"

And the father laughed and said:

How could I not have guessed it before! After all, it is our squirrel that makes reserves for the winter. Now it's autumn, in the wild all the squirrels are storing food, well, ours is not lagging behind, it is also stocking up.

After such an incident, they stopped locking the sweets from us, only they attached a hook to the sideboard so that the squirrel could not get in there. But the squirrel did not calm down on this, it continued to cook supplies for the winter. If he finds a crust of bread, a nut or a bone, he will grab it now, run away and hide it somewhere.

And then we once went to the forest for mushrooms. We came in late at night, tired, ate - and sleep as soon as possible. They left the wallet with mushrooms on the window: it's cool there, they won't deteriorate until the morning.

We get up in the morning - the whole basket is empty. Where did the mushrooms go? Suddenly the father from the office shouts, calls us. We ran to him, we looked - all the antlers above the sofa were hung with mushrooms. Mushrooms are everywhere on the towel hook, behind the mirror, and behind the painting. This squirrel tried early in the morning: she hung out the mushrooms to dry herself for the winter.

In the forest, squirrels are always dried on branches in autumn. So ours hastened. Apparently she smelled winter.

Soon it was really cold. The squirrel kept trying to get somewhere in a corner, where it would be warmer, but somehow she completely disappeared. They searched, looked for her - nowhere. Probably, she ran into the garden, and from there into the forest.

We felt sorry for the squirrels, but nothing can be done.

We got together to heat the stove, closed the air vent, put firewood on it, set it on fire. Suddenly, as something is being brought in in the stove, it rustles! We opened the air vent as soon as possible, and from there the squirrel jumped out like a bullet - and right onto the cabinet.

And the smoke from the stove is still pouring into the room, it doesn't go into the chimney. What? My brother made a hook out of thick wire and pushed it through the vent into the pipe to see if there was anything there.

We looked - he was pulling a tie out of the pipe, mother's glove, he even found grandmother's festive kerchief there.

All this our squirrel has dragged itself into the pipe for a nest. That's what it is! Although he lives in the house, he does not leave forest habits. Such is, apparently, their squirrel nature.

Caring milf

Georgy Skrebitsky

Once the shepherds caught a fox and brought it to us. We put the animal in an empty barn.

The fox was still small, all gray, the muzzle was dark, and the tail was white at the end. The animal hid in the far corner of the barn and looked around in fright. From fear he did not even bite when we stroked him, but only pressed his ears and trembled all over.

Mom poured milk into a bowl for him and put it next to him. But the frightened animal did not drink milk.

Then dad said that the fox should be left alone - let him look around, get used to a new place.

I really didn't want to leave, but dad locked the door and we went home. It was already evening, and soon everyone went to bed.

At night I woke up. I hear a puppy yapping and whining somewhere very close. Where do I think he came from? I looked out the window. It was already daylight in the yard. From the window one could see the barn where the fox cub was. It turns out that he was whining like a puppy.

A forest began right behind the barn.

Suddenly I saw that a fox jumped out of the bushes, stopped, listened, and stealthily ran to the barn. Immediately, the yapping in it stopped, and a joyful squeal was heard instead.

I quietly woke up mom and dad, and we all began to look out the window.

The fox ran around the barn, trying to undermine the ground under it. But there was a solid stone foundation, and the fox could do nothing. Soon she ran into the bushes, and the fox again began to whine loudly and pitifully.

I wanted to watch the fox all night, but dad said that she would not come again, and told me to go to bed.

I woke up late and, having dressed, first of all hastened to visit the fox. What is it? .. On the threshold, near the door, lay a dead hare. I rather ran to my dad and brought him with me.

That's the thing! - Dad said when he saw the hare. - It means that the fox mother once again came to the fox and brought him food. She could not get inside, and left it outside. What a caring mother!

All day I turned around the barn, looked into the cracks and twice went with my mother to feed the fox. And in the evening I could not fall asleep, I kept jumping out of bed and looking out the window to see if the fox had come.

Finally my mother got angry and covered the window with a dark curtain.

But in the morning I got up than light and immediately ran to the barn. This time, not a hare was lying on the threshold, but a strangled neighbor's hen. Apparently, the fox again came to visit the fox at night. She did not manage to catch prey in the forest for him, so she climbed into the chicken coop to the neighbors, strangled the chicken and brought it to her cub.

Dad had to pay for the chicken, besides, he got a lot from the neighbors.

Take the fox wherever you want, they shouted, otherwise the fox will transfer the whole bird with us!

There was nothing to do, dad had to put the fox in a bag and take it back to the forest, to the fox holes.

Since then, the fox never came to the village.

Hedgehog

M.M. Prishvin

Once I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He, too, noticed me, curled up and tapped: knock-knock-knock. It was very much as if a car was going in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and kicked his needles into the boot.

Oh, you're so with me! - I said and with the tip of my boot pushed him into the stream.

Instantly the hedgehog turned in the water and swam to the shore like a small pig, only instead of stubble there were needles on its back. I took my wand, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and carried it home.

I had a lot of mice. I heard that the hedgehog catches them, and decided: let him live with me and catch mice.

So I put this prickly lump in the middle of the floor and sat down to write, while out of the corner of my eye I kept looking at the hedgehog. He did not lie motionless for long: as soon as I was quiet at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go there, here, finally chose a place under the bed for himself, and there he was completely quiet.

When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! - the hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that it was the moon that rose in the forest: with the moon, hedgehogs love to run through forest glades.

And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.

I picked up the pipe, lit a cigarette and started a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: both the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked: he ducked between them, sniffing and scratching the heels of my boots with needles.

After reading the newspaper, I dropped it on the floor, went to bed and fell asleep.

I always sleep very lightly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit a candle and just noticed how a hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and did not sleep myself, thinking:

Why did the hedgehog need the newspaper?

Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; he turned around beside her, made a noise, made a noise, finally, he contrived: he somehow put a corner of a newspaper on the thorns and dragged it, huge, into the corner.

Then I understood him: the newspaper was like dry leaves in the forest, he dragged it for himself for the nest. And it turned out to be true: soon the hedgehog turned into a newspaper and made himself a real nest out of it. Having finished this important matter, he left his dwelling and stopped opposite the bed, looking at the candle-moon.

I let the clouds go and ask:

What else do you want? The hedgehog was not scared.

Do you want to drink?

I wake up. The hedgehog does not run.

I took the plate, put it on the floor, brought a bucket of water and then pour water into the plate, then pour it back into the bucket, and I make so much noise as if it was a trickle splashing.

Well, go, go, - I say. - You see, I arranged the moon for you, and let the clouds go, and here's the water ...

I look: as if I moved forward. And I also moved my lake a little to it. He will move, and I will move, and so we agreed.

Drink, - I say finally. He licked. And I ran my hand so lightly along the thorns, as if stroking, and I say everything:

You are a good guy, good!

The hedgehog got drunk, I say:

Let's sleep. He lay down and blew out the candle.

I don’t know how long I slept, I hear: again I have work in my room.

I light a candle, and what do you think? The hedgehog runs around the room, and he has an apple on the thorns. He ran into the nest, folded it there and ran after another into the corner, and in the corner stood a sack of apples and fell over. Here the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and again runs, dragging another apple into the nest on thorns.

So the hedgehog got a job with me. And now, like drinking tea, I will certainly have it on my table and then pour milk into his saucer - he will drink, then I will give buns - he will eat.

Hare paws

Konstantin Paustovsky

Vanya Malyavin came to the veterinarian in our village from Lake Urzhensky and brought a warm little hare wrapped in a torn wadded jacket. The hare cried and often blinked eyes red from tears ...

Are you crazy? shouted the veterinarian. - Soon you will be dragging mice to me, bum!

Don't bark, this is a special hare, - Vanya said in a hoarse whisper. - His grandfather sent, ordered to treat.

What to treat for?

His paws are burnt.

The vet turned Vanya to face the door,

pushed in the back and shouted after:

Go ahead, go ahead! I do not know how to treat them. Fry it with onions - grandfather will have a snack.

Vanya said nothing. He went out into the hallway, blinked his eyes, pulled his nose and buried himself in the log wall. Tears streamed down the wall. The hare trembled quietly under the greasy jacket.

What are you, kid? - Asked Vanya the compassionate grandmother Anisya; she brought her only goat to the vet. - What are you, dear ones, shedding tears together? Ay happened what?

He's burnt, grandfather's hare, - said Vanya quietly. - He burnt his paws in a forest fire, he cannot run. Just about, look, die.

Don't die, little one, - Anisya mumbled. - Tell your grandfather, if he has a great desire to go out, let him carry him to the city to Karl Petrovich.

Vanya wiped away his tears and went home through the forests, to Lake Urzhensky. He did not walk, but ran barefoot along the hot sandy road. A recent wildfire went north, near the lake itself. It smelled of burning and dry cloves. It grew in large islands in the glades.

The hare groaned.

Vanya found fluffy leaves covered with silver soft hair along the way, plucked them out, put them under a pine tree and turned the hare around. The hare looked at the leaves, buried his head in them and fell silent.

What are you, gray? - Vanya asked quietly. - You should eat.

The hare was silent.

The hare moved his ragged ear and closed his eyes.

Vanya took him in his arms and ran straight through the forest - he had to quickly give the hare a drink from the lake.

An unheard-of heat was over the forests that summer. In the morning, rows of dense white clouds came in. At noon the clouds were rapidly rushing upward, to the zenith, and before our eyes they were carried away and disappeared somewhere beyond the boundaries of the sky. The hot hurricane had been blowing for two weeks without a break. The resin that ran down the pine trunks turned into an amber stone.

The next morning, grandfather put on clean onuchi and new bast shoes, took a staff and a piece of bread and wandered into the city. Vanya carried the hare from behind.

The hare was completely quiet, only from time to time he shook his whole body and sighed convulsively.

Dry wind blew over the city a cloud of dust, soft as flour. Chicken fluff, dry leaves and straw flew in it. From a distance it seemed as if a quiet fire was smoking over the city.

The market place was very empty and sultry; cab horses dozed by the water booth and wore straw hats on their heads. The grandfather crossed himself.

Either the horse, or the bride - the jester will take them apart! he said and spat.

For a long time they asked passers-by about Karl Petrovich, but no one really answered anything. We went to the pharmacy. A fat old man in pince-nez and a short white coat shrugged his shoulders angrily and said:

I like it! Quite a strange question! Karl Petrovich Korsh, a specialist in pediatric diseases, has stopped accepting patients for three years. Why do you need it?

Grandfather, stuttering out of respect for the pharmacist and out of timidity, told about the hare.

I like it! - said the pharmacist. - Interesting patients are born in our city! I really like this!

He nervously took off his pince-nez, rubbed it, put it back on his nose and stared at his grandfather. The grandfather was silent and stomped on. The pharmacist was also silent. The silence grew painful.

Postal street, three! the pharmacist suddenly shouted in his hearts and slammed a tattered thick book shut. - Three!

Grandfather and Vanya got to Pochtovaya Street just in time - a high thunderstorm was coming from behind the Oka. Lazy thunder stretched over the horizon, as a sleepy strongman straightened his shoulders, and reluctantly shook the ground. A gray ripple went down the river. Silent lightning, surreptitiously, but swiftly and violently, struck the meadows; far beyond the Glades, a haystack was already burning. Large drops of rain fell on the dusty road, and soon it became like a lunar surface: each drop left a small crater in the dust.

Karl Petrovich was playing something sad and melodic on the piano when his grandfather's disheveled beard appeared in the window.

A minute later Karl Petrovich was already angry.

I'm not a veterinarian, ”he said, and slammed the lid on the piano. Immediately thunder rumbled in the meadows. - All my life I have treated children, not hares.

That the child, that the hare - all one, - stubbornly muttered the grandfather. - It's all one! Treat, show mercy! Our veterinarian is not subject to such cases. He was a horseman with us. This hare, one might say, is my savior: I owe him my life, I must show gratitude, and you say - quit!

A minute later Karl Petrovich, an old man with gray tousled eyebrows, excitedly listened to his grandfather's stumbling story.

Karl Petrovich finally agreed to treat the hare. The next morning, grandfather went to the lake, and left Vanya with Karl Petrovich to go after the hare.

A day later, the entire Pochtovaya Street, overgrown with goose grass, already knew that Karl Petrovich was treating a hare that was burnt in a terrible forest fire and saved some old man. Two days later the whole small town already knew about this, and on the third day a long young man in a felt hat came to Karl Petrovich, identified himself as an employee of a Moscow newspaper and asked for a conversation about a hare.

The hare was cured. Vanya wrapped him in cotton rags and carried him home. Soon the story of the hare was forgotten, and only some Moscow professor for a long time tried to get his grandfather to sell him the hare. He even sent letters with stamps to reply. But the grandfather did not give up. Under his dictation, Vanya wrote a letter to the professor:

“The hare is not corrupt, a living soul, let him live in freedom. With this I remain Larion Malyavin. "

This autumn I spent the night with my grandfather Larion on the Urzhensky lake. Constellations, cold as grains of ice, floated in the water. Dry reeds rustled. Ducks chilled in the thickets and quacked plaintively all night.

The grandfather could not sleep. He was sitting by the stove mending a torn fishing net. Then he put down the samovar - from it the windows in the hut immediately fogged up, and the stars from fiery points turned into muddy balls. Murzik barked in the yard. He jumped into the darkness, clanked his teeth and bounced back - he fought against the impenetrable October night. The hare slept in the entryway and from time to time in a dream loudly knocked on the rotten floorboard with its hind paw.

We drank tea at night, waiting for the distant and indecisive dawn, and over tea my grandfather finally told me the story of the hare.

In August, my grandfather went hunting on the northern shore of the lake. The woods were dry as gunpowder. My grandfather got a hare with a torn left ear. Grandfather shot him with an old, wired gun, but missed. The hare ran away.

The grandfather realized that a forest fire had started and the fire was going directly at him. The wind turned into a hurricane. The fire drove along the ground at an unheard of speed. According to his grandfather, even a train could not escape from such a fire. My grandfather was right: during the hurricane, the fire went at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour.

Grandfather ran over the bumps, stumbled, fell, the smoke ate away his eyes, and behind him a wide rumble and crackle of flame could already be heard.

Death overtook the grandfather, grabbed him by the shoulders, and at that time a hare jumped out from under the grandfather's feet. He ran slowly and dragged his hind legs. Then only the grandfather noticed that they were burnt on the hare.

The grandfather was delighted with the hare, as if he were a native. As an old forest dweller, my grandfather knew that animals sense where fire is coming from much better than humans, and are always saved. They die only on those rare occasions when fire surrounds them.

The grandfather ran after the hare. He ran, cried with fear and shouted: "Wait, dear, don't run so fast!"

The hare led the grandfather out of the fire. When they ran out of the forest to the lake, the hare and the grandfather both fell from exhaustion. The grandfather picked up the hare and carried it home.

The hare's hind legs and stomach were singed. Then his grandfather cured him and left him with him.

Yes, - said the grandfather, glancing at the samovar so angrily as if the samovar was to blame for everything, - yes, but before that hare, it turns out, I was very guilty, dear man.

What have you done wrong?

And you go out, look at the hare, at my savior, then you will know. Take the lantern!

I took a lantern from the table and went out into the senses. The hare was asleep. I bent over him with a flashlight and noticed that the hare's left ear was torn. Then I understood everything.

How an elephant saved its owner from a tiger

Boris Zhitkov

The Indians have tame elephants. One Hindu went with an elephant to the forest for firewood.

The forest was deaf and wild. The elephant trampled the owner's way and helped to cut down the trees, while the owner loaded them onto the elephant.

Suddenly the elephant stopped obeying its owner, began to look around, shake its ears, and then raised its trunk and roared.

The owner also looked around, but did not notice anything.

He became angry with the elephant and beat him on the ears with a branch.

And the elephant bent its trunk with a crochet hook to lift the owner onto his back. The owner thought: "I will sit on his neck - so it will be even more convenient for me to rule them."

He sat on the elephant and began whipping the elephant over the ears with a branch. And the elephant backed up, stomped and twisted its trunk. Then he froze and became alert.

The owner raised the branch to hit the elephant with all his might, but suddenly a huge tiger jumped out of the bushes. He wanted to attack the elephant from behind and jump on its back.

But his paws fell on the wood, the wood fell. The tiger wanted to jump another time, but the elephant had already turned, grabbed the tiger with its trunk across the belly, squeezed it like a thick rope. The tiger opened its mouth, stuck out its tongue and shook its paws.

And the elephant already lifted him up, then slammed down on the ground and began to trample with his feet.

And the elephant's legs are like pillars. And the elephant trampled the tiger into a cake. When the owner came to his senses from fear, he said:

What a fool I am to beat an elephant! And he saved my life.

The owner took out of the bag the bread he had prepared for himself and gave it all to the elephant.

Cat

M.M. Prishvin

When I see Vaska making his way in the garden from the window, I shout to him in the most gentle voice:

Va-sen-ka!

And in response, I know, he also screams at me, but I’m a little tight in my ear and don’t hear, but only see how, after my scream, a pink mouth opens on his white muzzle.

Va-sen-ka! I shout to him.

And I guess - he shouts to me:

I'm going now!

And with a firm, straight tiger step, he goes into the house.

In the morning, when the light from the dining room through the half-open door is still visible only as a pale crack, I know that the cat Vaska is sitting at the very door in the dark and waiting for me. He knows that the dining room is empty without me, and he is afraid that in another place he might doze off my entrance to the dining room. He has been sitting here for a long time, and as soon as I bring in the kettle, he rushes to me with a kind cry.

When I sit down for tea, he sits on my left knee and watches everything: how I prick sugar with tweezers, how I cut bread, how I spread butter. I know that he does not eat salted butter, but only takes a small piece of bread, if he has not caught a mouse at night.

When he is sure that there is nothing tasty on the table - a crust of cheese or a piece of sausage, he sinks on my knee, walks a little and falls asleep.

After tea, when I get up, he wakes up and goes to the window. There he turns his head in all directions, up and down, counting the dense flocks of jackdaws and crows flying by in this early morning hour. From the whole complex world of life in a big city, he chooses for himself only birds and rushes entirely only to them.

During the day - birds, and at night - mice, and so the whole world is with him: during the day, in the light, the black narrow slits of his eyes, crossing the dull green circle, see only birds, at night the entire black glowing eye opens and sees only mice.

Today the radiators are warm, and that's why the window is very fogged up, and it became very difficult for the cat to count jackdaws. So what do you think my cat! He got up on his hind legs, the front ones on the glass and wipe it, wipe it! When he rubbed it off and it became clearer, he again sat down calmly, like a china one, and again, counting the jackdaws, began to drive his head up, down, and to the sides.

During the day - birds, at night - mice, and this is the whole Vaska world.

Cat Thief

Konstantin Paustovsky

We were desperate. We didn't know how to catch this ginger cat. He robbed us every night. He hid so cleverly that none of us really saw him. Only a week later it was finally possible to establish that the cat's ear was torn off and a piece of the dirty tail was cut off.

It was a cat who had lost all conscience, a cat - a vagabond and a bandit. They called him for the eyes Thief.

He stole everything: fish, meat, sour cream and bread. Once he even tore up a tin can of worms in a closet. He did not eat them, but chickens came running to the opened jar and ate up our entire supply of worms.

The overgrown chickens lay in the sun and groaned. We walked around them and cursed, but the fishing was still disrupted.

We spent almost a month tracking down the ginger cat. The village boys helped us with this. One day they rushed in and, out of breath, said that at dawn the cat swept, crouching, through the gardens and dragged the kukan with perches in its teeth.

We rushed into the cellar and found the kukan missing; it had ten fat perch caught on the Prorv.

This was no longer theft, but robbery in broad daylight. We vowed to catch the cat and blow it up for gangster tricks.

The cat was caught that evening. He stole a piece of liver sausage from the table and climbed up the birch with it.

We started shaking the birch. The cat dropped the sausage, it fell on Reuben's head. The cat looked at us from above with wild eyes and howled menacingly.

But there was no salvation, and the cat decided on a desperate act. With a terrifying howl, he tore off the birch, fell to the ground, jumped like a soccer ball, and rushed under the house.

The house was small. He stood in a remote, abandoned garden. Every night we were awakened by the sound of wild apples falling from the branches onto its plank roof.

The house was littered with fishing rods, shot, apples and dry leaves. We only spent the night in it. All days from dawn to dark

we spent on the shores of countless streams and lakes. There we fished and made fires in the coastal thickets.

To get to the shores of the lakes, one had to trample narrow paths in the fragrant tall grasses. Their corollas swayed overhead and showered yellow flower dust on their shoulders.

We returned in the evening, scratched by a wild rose, tired, burned by the sun, with bundles of silver fish, and each time we were greeted with stories about the new tramp antics of the ginger cat.

But finally, the cat was caught. He climbed under the house into the only narrow hole. There was no way out.

We filled the hole with the old net and began to wait. But the cat did not come out. He howled disgustingly, like an underground spirit, howled continuously and without any fatigue. An hour passed, two, three ... It was time to go to bed, but the cat howled and cursed under the house, and it got on our nerves.

Then Lenka, the son of a village shoemaker, was summoned. Lyonka was famous for his fearlessness and dexterity. He was instructed to get the cat out from under the house.

Lyonka took a silk line, tied the raft caught by the tail to it by the tail and threw it through the hole into the underground.

The howl stopped. We heard a crunch and a predatory click - the cat grabbed the fish head with its teeth. He clung in a death grip. Lyonka dragged by the line. The cat desperately resisted, but Lyonka was stronger, and, besides, the cat did not want to release tasty fish.

A minute later the head of the cat, with the flesh clamped in its teeth, appeared in the hole of the manhole.

Lyonka grabbed the cat by the collar and lifted it off the ground. This is the first time we've looked at it properly.

The cat closed his eyes and pressed his ears. He tucked his tail just in case. It turned out to be a skinny, despite constant theft, fiery ginger cat-stray with white markings on its belly.

What are we to do with him?

Tear it out! - I said.

It won't help, - said Lyonka. - He has such a character since childhood. Try to feed him properly.

The cat waited, eyes closed.

We followed this advice, dragged the cat into the closet and gave him a wonderful dinner: fried pork, perch aspic, curds and sour cream.

The cat ate for over an hour. He staggered out of the closet, sat down on the threshold and washed, looking at us and at the low stars with green sassy eyes.

After washing his face, he snorted for a long time and rubbed his head on the floor. This was obviously meant to mean fun. We were afraid that he would rub the fur on the back of his head.

Then the cat rolled over onto its back, caught its tail, chewed it, spat it out, stretched out by the stove and snored peacefully.

From that day on, he took root with us and stopped stealing.

The next morning, he even did a noble and unexpected act.

The chickens climbed onto the table in the garden and, pushing each other and cursing, began to peck buckwheat porridge from the plates.

The cat, trembling with indignation, crept over to the chickens and jumped onto the table with a short triumphant cry.

The chickens took off with a desperate cry. They turned the jug of milk over and rushed, losing feathers, to flee the garden.

Ahead rushed, hiccupping, an ankle-headed fool rooster, nicknamed "Gorlach".

The cat rushed after him on three legs, and with the fourth, front paw, beat the rooster on the back. Dust and fluff flew from the rooster. Inside him, with each blow, something thumped and buzzed, like a cat was hitting a rubber ball.

After that, the cock lay for several minutes in a fit, rolling his eyes, and moaning softly. Cold water was poured over him and he walked away.

Since then, chickens have been afraid to steal. Seeing the cat, they hid under the house with a squeak and crush.

The cat walked around the house and garden like a master and watchman. He rubbed his head against our legs. He demanded gratitude, leaving scraps of red wool on our trousers.

We renamed him from Voryuga to Policeman. Although Reuben insisted that it was not entirely convenient, we were sure that the police would not be offended at us for this.

Small lace under the Christmas tree

Boris Zhitkov

The boy took a net - a wicker net - and went to the lake to fish.

He caught a blue fish first. Blue, shiny, with red feathers, with round eyes. The eyes are like buttons. And the tail of the fish is just like silk: blue, thin, golden hairs.

The boy took a mug, a small mug of thin glass. He scooped water from the lake into a mug, put the fish in a mug - let it swim for now.

The fish gets angry, beats, breaks out, and the boy is more likely to put it in a mug - boo!

The boy quietly took the fish by the tail, threw it into the mug - he could not see it at all. He himself ran on.

“Here,” he thinks, “wait, I'll catch a fish, a big crucian carp.”

Whoever catches a fish will be the first to catch it. Just do not grab it right away, do not swallow: there are thorny fish - ruff, for example. Bring, show. I'll tell you what kind of fish to eat, what to spit out.

Ducklings flew, swam in all directions. And one swam the farthest. He got out on the shore, shook himself and went waddling. What if there are fish on the shore? He sees that there is a mug under the tree. There is voditsa in a mug. "Let me take a look."

Fishes in the water rush, splash, poke, there is nowhere to get out - glass is everywhere. A duck came up and saw - oh yes, fish! He took the biggest one and picked it up. And rather to my mother.

“I’m probably the first. I was the first to catch a fish, and I was great. "

The fish is red, the feathers are white, two antennae hung down from the mouth, there are dark stripes on the sides, a speck on the scallop, like a black eye.

The duck flapped its wings, flew along the coast - straight to mom.

The boy sees - a duck is flying, flying low, overhead, holding a fish in its beak, a red fish with a finger long. The boy shouted at the top of his lungs:

Mine is a fish! Thief duck, now give it back!

He waved his arms, threw stones at him, screamed so terribly that he scared all the fish.

The duck was frightened and how he shouts:

Quack quack!

Shouted "quack, quack" and missed the fish.

The fish swam into the lake, into deep water, waved its feathers, swam home.

"How can I return to my mother with an empty beak?" - thought the duck, turned back, flew under the Christmas tree.

He sees that there is a mug under the tree. A small mug, in a mug of water, and in a mug - fish.

A duck ran up, and more likely grabbed a fish. A blue fish with a golden tail. Blue, shiny, with red feathers, with round eyes. The eyes are like buttons. And the tail of the fish is just like a silk one: blue, thin, golden hairs.

The duck flew up higher and - rather, to my mother.

“Well, now I won't shout, I won't open my beak. Once I was already a gap. "

So you can see my mother. Now it’s very close. And my mother shouted:

Quack, what are you talking about?

Quack, this is a fish, blue, gold, - there is a glass mug under the Christmas tree.

Here and again the beak is open, and the fish is splashing into the water! Little blue fish with a golden tail. She shook her tail, whined and went, went, went deeper.

The duck turned back, flew under the tree, looked into the mug, and in the mug the fish was small, small, no bigger than a mosquito, you could hardly see the fish. He pecked the duck into the water and flew back home with strength.

Where is your fish? the duck asked. - I can not see anything.

And the duck is silent, does not open its beak. Thinks: “I'm cunning! Wow, how cunning I am! Cunning of all! I will be silent, otherwise I will open my beak - I will miss the fish. I dropped it twice. "

And the fish in its beak beats with a thin mosquito, and climbs into the throat. The duck was scared: “Oh, I think I'll swallow it now! Oh, seems to have swallowed! "

The brothers arrived. Each has a fish. All swam up to mom and stick their beaks. And the duck shouts to the duckling:

Well, now you show what you brought! The duck opened its beak, but the fish did not.

Mitya's friends

Georgy Skrebitsky

In winter, in the December cold, a moose cow with a calf spent the night in a dense aspen forest. It's getting light. The sky turned pink, and the forest, covered with snow, was all white, silent. Small, shiny frost settled on the branches, on the backs of the moose. The moose dozed.

Suddenly, somewhere very close, the crunch of snow was heard. The moose was alert. Something gray flickered among the snow-covered trees. One moment - and the moose were already racing away, breaking the ice crust of the ice crust and sinking knee-deep in deep snow. Wolves chased after them. They were lighter than moose and rode on the ice without sinking. With every second the animals are getting closer and closer.

The elk could no longer run. The calf kept close to its mother. A little more - and the gray robbers will catch up, tear both of them apart.

Ahead - a clearing, a fence near a forest gatehouse, a wide-open gate.

Elk stopped: where to go? But behind, very close, I heard the crunch of snow - the wolves were overtaking. Then the moose cow, having collected the rest of her strength, rushed straight into the gate, the calf followed her.

The forester's son Mitya was shoveling snow in the yard. He barely jumped to the side - the moose almost knocked him down.

Elks! .. What's with them, where are they from?

Mitya ran to the gate and involuntarily recoiled: at the very gate - wolves.

A shiver ran down the boy's spine, but he immediately swung his shovel and shouted:

Here I am!

The beasts shied away.

Atu, atu! .. - Mitya shouted after them, jumping out of the gate.

Driving off the wolves, the boy looked into the yard. The elk with the calf stood huddled in the far corner, to the barn.

Look how frightened they are, everyone is trembling ... - said Mitya affectionately. - Do not be afraid. Now they are not touched.

And he, cautiously moving away from the gate, ran home - to tell what guests had rushed into their yard.

And the moose stood in the yard, recovered from their fright and went back to the forest. Since then, they spent the whole winter in the forest near the gatehouse.

In the morning, walking on the way to school, Mitya often saw moose from a distance on the forest edge.

Noticing the boy, they did not rush away, but only watched him closely, alerting their huge ears.

Mitya gaily nodded his head to them, as to old friends, and ran on to the village.

On an unknown path

N.I. Sladkov

I got to walk different paths: bear, boar, wolf. He also walked hare paths and even bird paths. But this is the first time I have walked such a path. This path was cleared and trampled by ants.

On the animal paths I unraveled animal secrets. Will I see something on this trail?

I did not walk along the path itself, but next to it. The path is painfully narrow - like a ribbon. But for the ants it was, of course, not a ribbon, but a wide highway. And Muravyov ran along the highway many, many. They dragged flies, mosquitoes, horseflies. The insect's transparent wings glittered. It seemed that a stream of water was pouring down the slope between the blades of grass.

I walk along the ant path and count the steps: sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five steps ... Wow! These are my big ones, but how many ant ones ?! Only at the seventy step did the trickle disappear under the stone. Serious trail.

I sat down on a stone to rest. I sit and watch the living vein beating under my feet. The wind will blow - ripples on a live stream. The sun will pass through - the stream will sparkle.

Suddenly, like a wave rushed along the ant road. The snake swerved over it and dived! - under the stone on which I was sitting. I even pulled my leg back - it must be a harmful viper. Well, rightly so - now the ants will neutralize her.

I knew that ants boldly attack snakes. They will stick around the snake - and only scales and bones will remain from it. I even decided to take the skeleton of this snake and show it to the guys.

I sit and wait. A live stream beats and beats underfoot. Well, now it's time! Carefully I lift the stone so as not to damage the snake skeleton. There is a snake under the stone. But not dead, but alive and not at all like a skeleton! On the contrary, it has become even thicker! The snake, which the ants were supposed to eat, calmly and slowly ate the Ants itself. She pressed them with her muzzle and sucked her tongue into her mouth. This snake was not a viper. I have never seen such snakes. The scales, like emery, are small, the same above and below. More like a worm than a snake.

An amazing snake: lifted a blunt tail up, led it from side to side, like a head, but suddenly it crawled forward with its tail! And the eyes are not visible. Either a snake with two heads, or even without a head! And it feeds on something - ants!

The skeleton did not come out, so I took the snake. At home he saw it in detail and determined the name. I found her eyes: small, with a pinhead, under the scales. That is why they call her - blind snake. She lives in burrows under the ground. She doesn't need eyes there. But crawling either with your head or with your tail forward is convenient. And she can dig the earth.

This is what an unknown path led me to.

What can I say! Each path leads somewhere. Just don't be lazy to go.

Autumn on the doorstep

N.I. Sladkov

Residents of the forest! - the wise Raven cried once in the morning. - Autumn is at the forest threshold, is everyone ready for its arrival?

Ready, ready, ready ...

But we'll check it now! - the Raven croaked. - First of all, autumn will let the cold fall into the forest - what will you do?

The animals responded:

We, squirrels, hares, foxes, will change into winter coats!

We, badgers, raccoons, will hide in warm holes!

We, hedgehogs, bats, will sleep soundly asleep!

The birds responded:

We, migrants, will fly away to warm lands!

We, sedentary, will wear down padded jackets!

The second thing, - the Raven shouts, - the autumn will begin to rip off the leaves from the trees!

Let it rip off! - the birds responded. - The berries will be better!

Let it rip off! - the animals responded. - It will become quieter in the forest!

The third thing, - the Raven does not appease, - the autumn of the last insects will snap a frost!

The birds responded:

And we, blackbirds, will pile on the mountain ash!

And we, woodpeckers, will begin to peel the cones!

And we, goldfinches, will take up the weeds!

The animals responded:

And we will sleep more calmly without mosquito flies!

The fourth thing, - the Raven buzzes, - will bore you autumn! He will overtake the gloomy clouds, let the boring rains, drive the dreary winds. The day will shorten, the sun will hide in its bosom!

Let him pester himself! - Birds and animals responded in unison. - Boredom will not get us through! That we have rain and wind when we

in fur coats and down padded jackets! Let's be full - we won't get bored!

The wise Raven wanted to ask something else, but he waved his wing and took off.

Flies, and under it a forest, colorful, motley - autumn.

Autumn has already stepped over the threshold. But she didn't scare anyone in the least.

Butterfly hunt

M.M. Prishvin

Zhulka, my young marble-blue hunting dog, rushes like a madman after birds, after butterflies, even after large flies, until hot breath throws out its tongue from its mouth. But this does not stop her.

Now such a story was in plain sight.

The yellow cabbage butterfly attracted attention. Giselle rushed after her, jumped and missed. The butterfly wobbled on. The crook after her - hap! A butterfly at least that: flies, wags, as if laughing.

Hap! - by. Hap, Hap! - by and by.

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

Where is our butterfly? A commotion began among the children. "Ah, ah!" - just heard.

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

Where is our butterfly?

At this time, hot vapors began to press inside Zhulka's mouth - after all, dogs do not have sweat glands. The mouth opened, the tongue fell out, the steam escaped, and together with the steam a butterfly flew out and, as if there was nothing with it at all, it was wobbling over the meadow.

Zhulka was so frustrated with this butterfly, so, probably, it was difficult for her to hold her breath with the butterfly in her mouth, that now, seeing the butterfly, she suddenly gave up. Throwing out her tongue, long, pink, she stood and looked at the flying butterfly with her eyes that at once became both small and stupid.

Children pestered us with a question:

Well, why doesn't the dog have sweat glands?

We didn't know what to say to them.

Schoolboy Vasya Veselkin answered them:

If the dogs had glands and they didn’t have to hahak, they would have caught and ate all the butterflies a long time ago.

Under the snow

N.I. Sladkov

He poured snow, covered the ground. Various small fry were delighted that no one would find them now under the snow. One animal even boasted:

Guess who I am? It looks like a mouse, not a mouse. The size of a rat, not a rat. I live in the forest, and I am called Pole. I am a water vole, but simply a water rat. Although I am watery, I am not sitting in the water, but under the snow. Because in winter the water is all frozen. I'm not alone now sitting under the snow, many of them have become snowdrops for the winter. Waited for carefree days. Now I'll run to my pantry, choose the largest potato ...

Here, from above, through the snow, a black beak sticks out: front, back, side! Vole bit her tongue, shrank and closed her eyes.

It was the Raven who heard the Vole and began to poke his beak into the snow. He walked up and down, poked, listened.

Did you hear it, or what? - grunted. And flew away.

The vole took a deep breath, whispered to herself:

Phew, how nice it smells of mouse!

The Vole rushed backwards - with all its short legs. I barely escaped. I caught my breath and thinks: “I will be silent - the Raven will not find me. And what about Lisa? Maybe roll out in the grassy dust to fight off the spirit of the mouse? So I will. And I'll live peacefully, no one will find me. "

And from the snorkel - Laska!

I found you, - he says. He speaks so affectionately, but his eyes shoot with the greenest sparks. And white teeth shine. - I found you, Vole!

Vole in the hole - Weasel after her. Vole in the snow - and Weasel in the snow, Vole in the snow - and Weasel in the snow. I barely escaped.

Only in the evening - not breathing! - Vole crept into her pantry and there - with an eye, listening and sniffing! - a potato from the edge jabbed. And that was glad. And she no longer bragged that her life under the snow was carefree. And under the snow keep your ears open, and there they hear and smell you.

About the elephant

Boris Zhidkov

We were approaching India by steamer. They should have come in the morning. I changed from the watch, tired and could not fall asleep: I kept thinking how it would be there. It’s as if a whole box of toys were brought to me as a child, and only tomorrow it can be opened. I kept thinking - in the morning, I'll open my eyes right away - and Indians, black, come around, mumbling incomprehensibly, not like in the picture. Bananas right on the bush

the city is new - everything will stir, play. And elephants! The main thing is that I wanted to see the elephants. I couldn’t believe that they were there not like in the zoological one, but simply walk, carry: suddenly there is such a mass rushing down the street!

I could not sleep, my legs were itching with impatience. After all, you know, when you go by land, it is not at all the same: you see how everything is gradually changing. And then for two weeks the ocean - water and water - and immediately a new country. Like the curtain in the theater was raised.

In the morning they stomped on the deck, they hummed. I rushed to the porthole, to the window - it was ready: the white city stood on the shore; port, ships, near the side of the boat: they are black in white turbans - their teeth are shining, they are shouting something; the sun shines with all its might, presses, it seems, presses with light. Then I went crazy, suffocated right: as if I were not me and all this is a fairy tale. I didn't want to eat anything in the morning. Dear comrades, I will stand for two watches at sea for you - let me go ashore as soon as possible.

The two of us jumped out to the shore. In the port, in the city, everything is boiling, boiling, people are pounding, and we are like crazy and do not know what to see, and we do not go, but as if what is carrying us (and after the sea it is always strange to walk along the coast). We look - a tram. We got on the tram, we don't really know why we are going, if only further, we went crazy. The tram rushes us, we gaze around and did not notice how we drove to the outskirts. Doesn't go further. We got out. Road. Let's go along the road. Let's come somewhere!

Then we calmed down a bit and noticed that it was great hot. The sun is above the dome itself; the shadow of you does not lie, but the whole shadow is under you: you walk, and you trample your shadow.

Decently already passed, people did not begin to meet, we look - towards the elephant. There are four guys with him - they are running along the road. I couldn’t believe my eyes: we hadn’t seen a single one in the city, but here it was easily walking along the road. It seemed to me that I had escaped from the zoological one. The elephant saw us and stopped. It became creepy for us: there are no big ones with him, the guys are alone. And who knows what is on his mind. Motanet once with a trunk - and you're done.

And the elephant probably thought so about us: some extraordinary, unknown are coming - who knows? And he did. Now he bent the trunk with a crochet hook, the elder boy got on the hook on this one, like on a bandwagon, holding his trunk with his hand, and the elephant sent it carefully on his head. He sat there between the ears, as if on a table.

Then the elephant, in the same order, sent two more at once, and the third was small, probably four years old - he was wearing only a short shirt, like a bra. The elephant gives him a trunk - go, they say, sit down. And he does different freaks, laughs, runs away. The elder shouts to him from above, and he jumps and teases - you can't take it, they say. The elephant did not wait, lowered its trunk and went - pretended that he did not want to look at his tricks. He walks, shakes his trunk regularly, and the boy curls around his feet, grimaces. And just when he was not expecting anything, the elephant suddenly had a trunks! Yes, so clever! Caught him by the shirt from behind and lifts him up carefully. The one with his hands, feet, like a bug. No really! None of you. He raised the elephant, carefully put it on his head, and there the guys accepted him. There, on an elephant, he still tried to fight.

We have caught up, we are walking by the side of the road, and the elephant from the other side is looking at us attentively and cautiously. And the guys are also staring at us and whispering among themselves. They sit as if at home on the roof.

Here, I think, it's great: they have nothing to fear there. If the tiger came across, the elephant would catch the tiger, grab it across the belly with its trunk, squeeze it, throw it above the tree and, if it doesn’t pick it up on its fangs, it will still stomp with its feet until it tramples it into a cake.

And then he took the boy, like a booger, with two fingers: carefully and carefully.

The elephant walked past us: we look, turns off the road and flooded into the bushes. Bushes are dense, thorny, growing like a wall. And he - through them, as through weeds - only the branches crunch, - climbed and went to the forest. He stopped near a tree, took a branch with his trunk and bent down to the guys. They immediately jumped to their feet, grabbed a branch and rob something from it. And the little one jumps up, tries to grab it too, fiddles as if he was not on an elephant, but on the ground. The elephant let go of a branch and bent another. Again the same story. At this point, the little one, apparently, entered the role: he completely climbed this branch, so that he also got it, and works. Everyone finished, the elephant started the branch, and the little one, we see, flew away with the branch. Well, we think he's gone - he flew now like a bullet into the forest. We rushed there. No, where is there! Do not crawl through bushes: thorny, and dense, and confused. We look, the elephant in the leaves fumbles with its trunk. He groped this little one - he apparently clung to a monkey there - took him out and put him in his place. Then the elephant came out onto the road ahead of us and went back. We follow him. He walks and from time to time looks around, looks askance at us: why, they say, are some people walking behind? So we followed the elephant to the house. Around the wattle. The elephant opened the gate with its trunk and cautiously slipped into the yard; there he lowered the guys to the ground. In the courtyard of the Hindu, something began to shout at him. She did not immediately notice us. And we are standing, looking through the fence.

The Hindu woman yells at the elephant, - the elephant reluctantly turned and went to the well. Two pillars are dug at the well, and between them is a view; a rope is wound on it and a handle is on the side. We look, the elephant took hold of the handle with its trunk and began to twirl: it turns as if empty, pulled out - a whole bucket there on a rope, ten buckets. The elephant rested the root of its trunk on the handle so that it would not turn, bent its trunk, picked up the bucket and, like a mug of water, put it on the side of the well. Baba got some water, she also made the guys carry it - she was just doing the washing. The elephant again lowered the bucket and twisted the full one up.

The hostess began to scold him again. The elephant threw the bucket into the well, shook its ears and walked away - did not get more water, went under the shed. And there, in the corner of the courtyard, a canopy was made on flimsy posts - just the elephant could crawl under it. On top of the reeds are thrown some long leaves.

Here is just a Hindu, the owner himself. Saw us. We say - the elephant has come to look. The owner knew a little English, asked who we were; everything points to my Russian cap. I say Russians. And he didn't even know what Russians were.

Not British?

No, I say, not the British.

He was delighted, laughed, immediately became different: he called to him.

And the Indians hate the British: the British have long conquered their country, they are in charge there and the Indians are kept under their heels.

I'm asking:

Why isn't the elephant coming out?

And this is he, - he says, - offended, and, therefore, not in vain. Now he won't work at all until he leaves.

We look, the elephant came out from under the shed, through the gate - and away from the yard. We think now it will completely go away. And the Indian laughs. The elephant went to the tree, leaning sideways and rubbing well. The tree is healthy - everything walks right up and down. It is he who itches like a pig on a fence.

He scratched himself, collected dust in the trunk and where he scratched, with dust, earth will blow! Once, and again, and again! He cleans this so that nothing starts up in the folds: all his skin is hard, like a sole, and in the folds it is thinner, and in southern countries there is a lot of biting insects.

After all, look what: it does not itch against the posts in the barn, so as not to break it, it even makes its way carefully there, and walks to the tree to itch. I say to a Hindu:

How smart you are!

And he laughs.

Well, - he says, - if I had lived a hundred and fifty years, I would have learned not that. And he, - points to the elephant, - nursed my grandfather.

I looked at the elephant - it seemed to me that the Hindu was not the owner here, but the elephant, the elephant was in charge here.

I say:

Do you have the old one?

No, - he says, - he is one and a half hundred years old, he is in time! I have a baby elephant over there, his son - he is twenty years old, just a child. By the age of forty, it is just beginning to come into effect. Wait, the elephant will come, you will see: he is small.

An elephant came, and with her a baby elephant — the size of a horse, without fangs; he followed his mother like a foal.

The Hindu children rushed to help their mother, began to jump, to gather somewhere. The elephant went too; the elephant and the baby elephant are with them. The Indian explains that to the river. We are with the guys too.

They were not shy of us. Everyone tried to speak - they have their own way, we speak Russian - and laughed all the way. The little one pestered us most of all - he wore all my cap and shouted something funny - maybe about us.

The air in the forest is fragrant, spicy, thick. We walked through the forest. We came to the river.

Not a river, but a stream - fast, so it rushes, so the bank gnaws. To the water a snatch in an arshin. The elephants entered the water and took the baby elephant with them. They put water on his chest, and the two of them began to wash him. They will collect sand from the bottom with water into the trunk and, as from the gut, watered it. It's great - only the spray is flying.

And the guys are afraid to get into the water - the current hurts too fast, it will carry away. They jump on the shore and let's throw stones at the elephant. He doesn't care, he doesn't even pay attention - he washes his baby elephant. Then, I looked, I took some water into the trunk and suddenly, as he turned on the boys and one would blow a stream directly into the belly, he sat down. He laughs, pours out.

Wash the elephant again. And the guys even harder to pester him with pebbles. The elephant only shakes its ears: do not bother, they say, you see, there is no time to indulge! And just when the boys did not wait, they thought - he would blow water on the elephant, he immediately turned his trunk and into them.

Those are happy, somersaults.

The elephant came ashore; the baby elephant extended its trunk like a hand. The elephant braided its trunk about his and helped him to get out onto the scrap.

All went home: three elephants and four children.

The next day I asked where you can see elephants at work.

At the edge of the forest, by the river, a whole city of hewn logs is fenced off: stacks are standing, each one high in a hut. One elephant stood there. And it was immediately obvious that he was already quite an old man - the skin on him was completely sagging and coarse, and his trunk was dangling like a rag. Ears of some kind. I saw another elephant coming from the forest. A log sways in its trunk - a huge hewn log. There must be a hundred poods. The porter is waddling heavily, coming up to the old elephant. The old man picks up the log from one end, and the porter lowers the log and moves with his trunk to the other end. I look: what are they going to do? And the elephants together, as if on command, lifted the log on their trunks up and carefully laid it on the pile. Yes, so smooth and correct - like a carpenter on a building.

And not a single person near them.

Later I found out that this old elephant is the chief artel worker: he has already grown old in this work.

The porter went slowly into the forest, and the old man hung up his trunk, turned his back to the pile and began to look at the river, as if he wanted to say: "I'm tired of this, and would not look."

And the third elephant with a log is coming from the forest. We are where the elephants came from.

It's a shame to tell what we saw here. Elephants from forest mines dragged these logs to the river. In one place by the road there are two trees on the sides, so much so that an elephant with a log cannot pass. The elephant will reach this place, lower the log to the ground, tuck its knees, tuck the trunk and with the very nose, the very root of the trunk pushes the log forward. The earth, stones fly, rubs and plows the ground, and the elephant crawls and shoves. One can see how difficult it is for him to crawl on his knees. Then he will get up, catch his breath and not immediately grab the log. Again he will turn him across the road, again on his knees. He puts the trunk on the ground and rolls the log onto the trunk with his knees. How the trunk does not crush! Look, he's got up again and carries. A log on a trunk swings like a heavy pendulum.

There were eight of them - all the elephants-carriers - and each had to shove the log with his nose: people did not want to cut down the two trees that stood on the road.

It became unpleasant for us to watch the old man pushing at the pile, and we were sorry for the elephants that crawled on their knees. We stood for a short time and left.

Fluff

Georgy Skrebitsky

We had a hedgehog in our house, he was tame. When he was stroked, he pressed the thorns to his back and became completely soft. For this we called him Fluff.

If Fluff was hungry, he chased me like a dog. At the same time, the hedgehog puffed, snorted and bit my legs, demanding food.

In the summer I took Cannon with me for a walk in the garden. He ran along the paths, caught frogs, beetles, snails and ate them with appetite.

When winter came, I stopped taking Cannon for walks, I kept him at home. Now we fed Pushk with milk, soup, and moistened bread. It used to be a hedgehog to eat, climb behind the stove, curl up into a ball and sleep. And in the evening he will get out and start running around the rooms. Runs all night, stomps with paws, prevents everyone from sleeping. So he lived in our house for more than half of the winter and never visited the street.

But somehow I was going to sled down the mountain, and there were no comrades in the yard. I decided to take the Cannon with me. He took out a box, laid there hay and planted a hedgehog, and to keep it warm, he also closed it on top with hay. I put the box on the sled and ran to the pond, where we always rode down the mountain.

I ran at full speed, imagining myself as a horse, and carried the Cannon in a sled.

It was very good: the sun was shining, the frost pinched the ears and nose. But the wind had completely died down, so that the smoke from the village chimneys did not swirl, but rested in straight columns against the sky.

I looked at these pillars, and it seemed to me that it was not smoke at all, but thick blue ropes were coming down from the sky and small toy houses were tied to them by pipes below.

I dashed off my fill from the mountain, took the sled with a hedgehog home.

I'm taking it - suddenly the guys meet: they run to the village to look at the killed wolf. The hunters just brought him there.

I put the sled in the barn as soon as possible and also rushed to the village after the guys. We stayed there until the evening. We watched how the skin was removed from the wolf, how it was straightened on a wooden spear.

I remembered about the Cannon only the next day. I was very scared if he had run away where. Immediately rushed into the barn, to the sled. I looked - my Fluff was lying curled up in a box and did not move. No matter how much I shook him, he didn’t even move. During the night, apparently, completely froze and died.

I ran to the guys, told about my misfortune. They all grieved together, but there was nothing to do, and they decided to bury the Cannon in the garden, bury it in the snow in the very box in which he died.

For a whole week we all grieved for poor Cannon. And then they gave me a live owl - they caught it in our barn. He was wild. We began to tame him and forgot about the Cannon.

But now spring has come, and how warm it is! Once in the morning I went to the garden: it is especially good in the spring - the finches are singing, the sun is shining, there are huge puddles all around, like lakes. I make my way carefully along the path so as not to scoop up dirt in my galoshes. Suddenly ahead, in a heap of last year's leaves, something was being brought in. I stopped. Who is this animal? Which one? A familiar muzzle appeared from under the dark leaves, and black eyes looked directly at me.

Not remembering myself, I rushed to the animal. A second later I was already holding the Cannon in my hands, and he sniffed my fingers, snorted and poked my palm with a cold nose, demanding food.

Right there on the ground lay a thawed box with hay, in which Fluff had slept safely all winter. I lifted the box, put a hedgehog there and triumphantly brought it home.

Guys and ducklings

M.M. Prishvin

The little wild duck teal-whistle decided to finally transfer her ducklings from the forest, bypassing the village, into the lake to freedom. In the spring this lake overflowed far away and a solid place for a nest could be found only three miles away, on a hummock in a swampy forest. And when the water subsided, I had to travel all three miles to the lake.

In places open to the eyes of a man, a fox and a hawk, the mother walked behind so as not to let the ducklings out of sight for a moment. And near the smithy, when crossing the road, she, of course, let them go ahead. Here the guys saw and threw their hats. All the time, while they were catching ducklings, the mother ran after them with an open beak or flew in different directions for several steps in the greatest excitement. The guys were just about to throw their hats over their mother and catch her like ducklings, but then I approached.

What will you do with the ducklings? - I asked the guys sternly.

They chickened out and answered:

Let's start.

Let's just "let" go! I said very angrily. - Why did you have to catch them? Where is mother now?

And he sits there! - the guys answered in unison. And they pointed me to a nearby mound of a steam field, where the duck really sat with his mouth open from excitement.

Lively, - I ordered the guys, - go and return all the ducklings to her!

They even seemed to be delighted with my order, straight ahead and ran with the ducklings up the hill. The mother flew away a little and when the guys left, she rushed to save her sons and daughters. In her own way, she quickly told them something and ran to the oat field. Five ducklings ran after her, and so through the oat field, bypassing the village, the family continued their journey to the lake.

I happily took off my cap and, waving it, shouted:

Bon voyage, ducklings!

The guys laughed at me.

What are you laughing at, silly fools? - I said to the guys. - Do you think it's so easy for ducklings to get into the lake? Take off all your hats quickly, shout "goodbye"!

And the same hats, dusty on the road while catching ducklings, rose into the air, all the guys shouted at once:

Goodbye ducklings!

Blue bast shoe

M.M. Prishvin

Highways with separate paths for cars, for trucks, for carts and for pedestrians lead through our large forest. So far, only the forest has been cut down by a corridor for this highway. It is good to look along the clearing: two green walls of the forest and the sky at the end. When the forest was cut down, large trees were taken away somewhere, while small brushwood - rookery - was collected in huge heaps. They also wanted to take away the rookery to heat the factory, but they did not manage, and the heaps along the entire wide felling remained to winter.

In the fall, hunters complained that the hares had disappeared somewhere, and some associated this disappearance of hares with the deforestation: they chopped, knocked, hummed and scared away. When the powder flew in and one could see all the hare's tricks on the tracks, the pathfinder Rodionich came and said:

- The whole blue bast shoe lies under the heaps of Rookery.

Rodionich, unlike all hunters, called the hare not "slash", but always "blue bast shoes"; There is nothing to be surprised at: after all, a hare is no more like a devil than a bast shoe, and if they say that there are no blue bast shoes in the world, then I will say that there are no slashes either.

The rumor about hares under the piles instantly ran all over our town, and on the day off the hunters led by Rodionich began to flock to me.

Early in the morning, at dawn, we went out hunting without dogs: Rodionich was such an expert that he could catch a hare on a hunter better than any hound. As soon as it became visible enough to distinguish the fox's footprints from those of the hare's, we took the hare's footprint, followed it, and, of course, it led us to one heap of rookery, as high as our wooden house with a mezzanine. A hare was supposed to lie under this heap, and we, having prepared our guns, stood all around.

- Come on, - we said to Rodionitch.

- Get out, blue bast! - He shouted and thrust a long stick under the heap.

The hare didn't jump out. Rodionich was taken aback. And, having thought, with a very serious face, looking at every little thing in the snow, he walked around the whole pile and again walked around in a large circle: there was no exit trail anywhere.

- Here he is, - said Rodionitch confidently. - Get in place, guys, he's here. Ready?

- Come on! We shouted.

- Get out, blue bast! - Rodionitch shouted, and thrice stabbed under the rookery with such a long stick that the end of it on the other side almost knocked one young hunter off his feet.

And now - no, the hare did not jump out!

Such an embarrassment with our oldest tracker has never happened in his life: even in his face he seemed to have fallen a little. In our country, the fuss started, each began to guess something in his own way, poke his nose into everything, walk back and forth in the snow and so, rubbing all traces, take away every opportunity to unravel the trick of the clever hare.

And now, I see, Rodionitch suddenly beamed, sat down, satisfied, on a stump at a distance from the hunters, rolls up a cigarette and blinks, then blinks at me and beckons to him. Having realized the matter, imperceptibly for everyone I went up to Rodionich, and he showed me upstairs, to the very top of a high heap of rookery covered with snow.

- Look, - he whispers, - some blue bast plays with us.

Not at once, on the white snow, I saw two black dots - the eyes of a hare and two more small dots - the black tips of long white ears. This head stuck out from under the rookery and turned in different directions after the hunters: where they are, there the head goes.

As soon as I raised my gun, the life of a clever hare would have ended in an instant. But I felt sorry: you never know them, stupid, lying under the heaps! ..

Rodionich understood me without words. He crumpled a dense lump out of the snow for himself, waited for the hunters to huddle on the other side of the heap, and, having noticed well, let this lump into the hare.

I never thought that our ordinary white hare, if he suddenly stood on a heap, and even jumped up two yards, and appeared against the sky, that our hare might seem like a giant on a huge rock!

What happened to the hunters? The hare fell straight to them from the sky. In an instant, everyone grabbed their guns - it was very easy to kill. But each hunter wanted to kill before the other, and each, of course, had enough, not aiming at all, and the lively hare set off into the bushes.

- Here's a blue bast! - Rodionich said after him with admiration.

The hunters once again managed to hit the bushes.

- Killed! - shouted one, young, hot.

But suddenly, as if in response to "killed," a tail flickered in the distant bushes; hunters for some reason always call this tail a flower.

Blue bast shoes from distant bushes only waved their "flower" to hunters.

Brave duckling

Boris Zhitkov

Every morning the hostess brought out a full plate of chopped eggs to the ducklings. She put the plate near the bush, and she left.

As soon as the ducklings ran up to the plate, suddenly a large dragonfly flew out of the garden and began to circle over them.

She chirped so terribly that the frightened ducklings ran away and hid in the grass. They were afraid that the dragonfly would bite them all.

And the evil dragonfly sat down on a plate, tasted the food and then flew away. After that, the ducklings did not come to the plate for the whole day. They were afraid that the dragonfly would come again. In the evening, the hostess removed the plate and said: “Our ducklings must be sick, they’re not eating anything.” She didn’t know that the ducklings went to bed hungry every night.

Once their neighbor, a little duck Alyosha, came to visit the ducklings. When the ducklings told him about the dragonfly, he began to laugh.

Well, brave men! - he said. - I'll drive this dragonfly away alone. You will see tomorrow.

You brag, - said the ducklings, - tomorrow you will be the first to be scared and run.

The next morning, the hostess, as always, put the plate of chopped eggs on the ground and left.

Well, look, - said the brave Alyosha, - now I will fight with your dragonfly.

He had just said this, when suddenly a dragonfly buzzed. Right from above, she flew onto the plate.

The ducklings wanted to run away, but Alyosha was not afraid. Before the dragonfly had time to sit on the plate, Alyosha grabbed her by the wing with his beak. With a violent force, she escaped and flew away with a broken wing.

Since then, she never flew into the garden, and the ducklings ate their fill every day. They not only ate themselves, but also treated the brave Alyosha for saving them from the dragonfly.

Society has repeatedly faced and, unfortunately, continues to face the problem of cruelty and violence against animals. An example of this is the recent terrible events in the Russian city of Khabarovsk, which caused shock and loud horror in all compassionate people. Unfortunately, such stories are just a drop in a sea of \u200b\u200bconstant violence for the sake of fun and entertainment. And what is even worse: practically still children can be the authors of such reprisals.

You can talk a lot and loudly about the costs of upbringing, unfavorable conditions, and so on, but as a children's writer, and in the past a child for whom other children's authors wrote their works, I want to talk about those books that somehow instill compassion and love for our smaller brothers. I have compiled my small selection of works.

Grigory Pocheptsov "Bureau of Good Services"

I already mentioned this book in the post “What I am reading. Children's books". In this fairy tale, what every zoological volunteer dreams of: a real flame to which all disadvantaged and defenseless animals can come. Once a street and no man's kitten fell into the hands of a kind wizard, who, fortunately, the fluffy noticed him and invited him to live in his apartment. And then, already a grown kitten, he thought that not all animals could be as lucky as he was, and he decided to offer his master to build a Bureau of Good Services. Only now, as often happens, there are nasty and evil sorceresses who do not really like the deeds of good wizards. I recommend this story to all children and adults. After reading it, you will immediately want to become, if not a wizard, then definitely better, kinder and more merciful.

Boris Zakhoder Poems and fairy tales about animals

It is important to instill love for animals from early childhood. Boris Zakhoder, the author of many poems and fairy tales about animals, will gladly help you with this. This is for you "Shaggy Alphabet", and "Bird School", and my favorite verse "Muzzle, Tail and Four Legs." All these funny characters are so cute that they cannot leave indifferent any kind child. The prose of Boris Zakhoder also gained deserved popularity: the book of fairy tales "Martyshkino Tomorrow", "Good Rhinoceros", "Once upon a time Phip", fairy tales "The Gray Star", "Little Mermaid" "The Hermit and the Rose", "The Story of a Caterpillar", "Why Fish are silent ”,“ Ma-Tari-Kari ”,“ A Tale of Everyone in the World ”and many others.

Eric Knight "Lassie"

This book immerses the reader in the world of a single dog so much that the whole story you involuntarily ask yourself the question: "What does it mean to be Lassie?" What does it mean to feel lonely like a dog? What does a person mean to a dog, and only one commitment to him that constantly revolves in his head: "To be exactly at four o'clock near the school"? What does loyalty and love mean? What do other people mean? And besides how Lassie stubbornly, step by step, returns back to his native Yorkshire from a foreign Scotland, so the reader finds answers to his questions. I read this book for the first time when I was 12 years old, and it was hard enough for me mentally. However, such stories force us to ask the very question that I raised above: "What does it mean to be a different creature?" This question is much more important than it might seem. After all, we do not know what it is like to feel something certain, like another person, much less a being of a different kind. Of course, this work is just a reflection, first of all, of the author's attitude to dogs, his knowledge and observation of them about them, and his own collie dog Tootsie served as a kind of prototype for Lassie. I recommend this book to all children and adolescents, because it contains the most important thing: compassion, understanding of someone else's pain, be it from injuries, cold, hunger or loneliness. By the way, an entertaining fact: "Lassie is a fictional dog who was awarded a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame."

Alexander Kuprin Story "White Poodle"

A wonderful lyrical work about a wandering troupe, consisting of a twelve-year-old acrobat Sergei, his faithful poodle Artaud trained in all kinds of tricks, and the most senior member of the team, the grandfather of Martin Lodyzhkin. Traveling along the rich dachas on the Crimean coast, the artists earned a simple money by performing in front of the inhabitants of these dachas. But then one day, during one such street performance, one very capricious boy Nikolai wanted Artaud for himself. Well, so that the capricious Nikolai would no longer throw tantrums and get what he wanted, his mother decided that the easiest way would be to buy the dog from the wandering artists. Taking into account only the material side of the world, she and the rest of the family members of the capricious Nikolai ceased to understand that the dog, first of all, is not a thing or an accessory, like a bag, a hat or a new toy. This is a friend. For Sergei and Martyn's grandfather, the poodle Artaud was not only a full member of their team, but also a faithful companion in their difficult, often hungry and poor life. And friends cannot be sold. Therefore, when the poodle is brazenly stolen, Sergei, in spite of everything, returns to the dacha of the rich to rescue his shaggy friend from captivity. I read this story from Kuprin already in adulthood, and I honestly don’t understand why we studied his “Pomegranate Bracelet” and “Olesya” at school, where not very clear topics and questions for adolescents of thirteen or fourteen years old are discussed, but these are the lovely things about boy-dog friendship - no.

Cesar Petrescu "Fram - Polar Bear"

The story of a circus bear named Fram, who returned to his native Arctic. Once the famous Fram, who got into the famous Strutsky circus as a bear cub, stopped performing tricks and fell into a real "bear" depression. As it turned out, he simply missed his white snowy homeland - the Arctic, which he very vaguely remembers. This story is about how the animal, tamed and used by people for its own purposes, again learned to be what it really is - a polar bear. Touching and light, tragic and full of empathy, it is about the fact that the world of wild nature is a completely different world. Yes, he is often cruel, but not for the sake of profit, whim or fun, as is the case with people. I recommend it for a family reading, followed by a discussion of the differences between the wilderness and the human jungle.

I have compiled a selection of only 5 points. But if you are interested, I will definitely write about other works that I remember as stories that instill a good attitude towards animals.

One of the writers whose works entered the circle of children's reading was Dmitry Narkisovich Mamin-Sibiryak(1852-1912) His compositions for children of various genres (stories, fairy tales, essays on various topics) are addressed to readers of different ages.

"Sibiryak" is a literary pseudonym for the writer, whose childhood and youth were spent in the Perm province. The writer remembered well the time spent in the Urals and his works

reveal the amazing world of nature, show the life of people living in the Ural wilderness. These are the stories "Emelya the Hunter" (1884), "Winter on Studenaya" (1892), "Reception" (1893), "In the Wilderness" (1896), "The Rich and Eremka" (1904), "Pimka the Zhigalenok" ( 1911), essays "On the Chusovaya River" (1900), "In the Steppe" (1900), the story "White Gold" (1897).

The prose of D. N. Mamin-Sibiryak for children is distinguished by thematic and genre diversity. In addition to social and everyday stories and stories, realistic works about animals, the children's reading circle also includes journalistic chronicles and artistic sketches of the writer ("Glorious is the city of Veliky Novgorod", "Conquest of Siberia", "On the Chusovaya River"); landscape sketches ("Green Mountains"); satirical, everyday and educational tales; stories reflecting the psychology of young children ("Funtik", "Poor Sawyer", "Doll Shop").

In the "Ural stories" Mamin-Sibiryak clearly sound two main themes: "the relationship of man with nature and social evil."

In the story "Skewer" the reader is disclosed tragic fate boy Proshka, working in a lapidary workshop. From the very beginning of the story, the opposition of light and darkness is introduced: the sun bursting into a gloomy room cannot illuminate the dark corner in which Proshka works behind his grinding wheel, doing the darkest work. In his life there is not only sunlight, but also human warmth. And the worst thing is that he forgot about how warm this can be, and therefore he is so unaccustomed to the inept care of a lady who visited the workshop with her children. For one of them, Volodya, Proshkin's hard work is a semblance of a game that he then arranges in his nursery. And the lady cannot understand that the hearty food with which she tries to feed Proshka cannot replace his mother's warmth. Proshka dies, fades away behind his grinding wheel, which he turns to the last, because he is ashamed to eat someone else's bread for free. There is no open conflict in the story, nothing out of the ordinary happens in the life of the characters. Everything is mundane and ordinary. But the most tragic thing is precisely in this: life itself conditions the conflict, which consists in the fact that the abnormal becomes the norm of existence.

Stories about man and nature open up the possibility of a different world order: in them, nature draws a person into such relationships that are natural for living beings, and a person discovers goodness and compassion in himself.

A dog and a watchman take care of each other, abandoned in the forest cordon and deceived by merchants (story "Winter on Studenaya "), Hunts, marveling at the wisdom of nature, old man Emelya ( "Emelya the Hunter" ). In such stories, nature does not serve as a background - it enters into a kind of dialogue with the hero, sometimes cruelly tests him. So, in the story "Emelya the Hunter" the old man tries to leave his sick grandson Grishutka and goes hunting for the deer that the boy dreams of. But, having seen how the deer exposed herself to the bullet, selflessly protecting her cub, the old man, amazed by the behavior of the animal, could not make a fatal shot for him. The story ends happily. The grandfather tells his grandson that he saw a fawn - a yellow one, with a black muzzle and black hooves, and how he fled into the forest. This is enough to make the boy feel joy.

Plot "Priemysha" develops consistently and slowly. This is a story about a small segment of the life of the old hunter Taras. He takes care of a young swan, whom he rescued and tamed when his parents were shot for fun by the "coming hunters from the masters". In addition to the swan, Taras has a dog named Sobolko. The content of the work is a description of the touching relationship between man, animal and bird. Like a child, Taras takes care of the swan, calls him Foster. The dialogue between him and the author-narrator, who became a participant in all the events described, helps to understand: the old man is sure that the swan will always live with him, since it is good here - nourishing and water all around. However, he immediately notes that "one is indicated to a person, and another to a bird ...".

An old man tells about the friendship of a swan and a dog, which Mamin-Sibiryak endows with human features: "the dog is bored when the swan swims away far away", and the swan turns out to be a proud bird: "Beck her with food and don’t give it, it will not work another time. In the fall, Priyomysh flies away, affirming the force of the laws of nature, and the old man experiences parting with a swan, separation from which means for Taras the arrival of real old age, and we see that man's love for nature can be a source of both joy and sadness.

In 1903, A. I. Kuprin, reviewing Kipling's story "Brave Navigators", rightly remarked about Mamin-Sibiryak:

I will not be mistaken when I say that of our contemporary artists, only one Mamin-Sibiryak knows how and can write those lovely stories for children, the secret of which is that they irresistibly captivate adults. The last condition can be considered the most unmistakable sign that the work is written with talent and that it will find a way to a child's heart ...

In the literary heritage of the fiction writer, fairy tales for children make up a special page. The master of a scientific fairy tale, in the preface to one of the collections, advises children to observe that “mysterious life of nature, which is constantly boiling around”. Tales about the nature of Mamin-Sibiryak continue the tradition of scientific and educational fairy tales, laid down in Russia in the 19th century by V.F. Odoevsky and continued by the children's naturalist writers of the 20th century V.V. Bianchi, E.I. Charushin and others. In a fascinating fabulous form, the writer introduces the child to the peculiarities of trees, forest grasses, flowers, to the nightlife of nature's inhabitants, to the natural selection and interspecies struggle taking place in it.

Charm artistic worldestablished in literary tales Mamin-Sibiryak, - in a wise, kind view of nature and "lesser brothers". So, "Forest Fairy Tale" - this is an exciting story of the death of an old spruce and its young offspring. Tears ooze from the wounds of the trees cut down, which people do not notice, mistaking them for ordinary tar. Weeds in the garden ("Green War ») Argue for the best place in the sun, each showing his own individual face. The thorny burdock loves to brag. Stinging nettle constantly annoys and grumbles to everyone. Starting from the folk animal epic, the prose writer creates his own original fairy-tale poetics. He endows demonological characters with completely real, recognizable character traits. Grandfather the Water One is the keeper of forest moisture. Goblin is a cheerful and crafty old man. A mermaid is a little girl who plays with a glowing worm. Everyone loves her and affectionately calls her "Squirrel".

In a fairy tale "Gray neck" a loving mother duck grieves because of the upcoming separation from her beloved daughter, and Drake the father is more restrained in his feelings: he has to take care of the whole duck family. The treacherous fox utters affectionate speeches, and by cunning and deceit itself strives to seize the prey. Although the gray hare sympathizes with the lonely duck, he is very cowardly, and therefore worries only about his own salvation. Mamin-Sibiryak's bear is playful ( "Medvedko "). The sparrow is stealing ( "Old Sparrow" ). Petersburg cat Vaska is a lover of easy money, a bully and impudent ( "Vasily Ivanovich's nasty day" ). In fairy tales about animals, the writer introduces characters from Children's nursery rhymes and jokes: a mosquito, a fly, a goat. He reveals their images according to the laws of a realistic psychological art, masterfully conveying the hero's point of view on the world, which is completely uncharacteristic for folklore works.

In the tales of Mamin-Sibiryak, there is a lot of humorous, comical. It seems to Sparrow that he is the only and sincere friend of man and, moreover, a wonderful singer ("The Tale of Sparrow Vorobeich, Ruff Ershovich and the cheerful chimney sweep Yasha"). The room fly is sure that the kind mother sets the table three times a day in order to feed her until she is full ("The Tale of How the Last Fly Lived"). The newly born Kozyavochka sincerely believes that the world is beautiful and belongs to her alone ("The Tale of Kozyavochka"). And the cat Murka is convinced that the bird in the cage is kept exclusively for him ("The Parable of the Milk, Oatmeal Kashka and the gray cat Murka"). Animal adventures are fun but instructive.

The best fabulous collection of Mamin-Sibiryak - "Alenushka's Tales" (1896). Here the writer proved himself not only an expert in child psychology, but also an intelligent educator. It is no coincidence that contemporaries defined the creative manner of the author of the cycle as "mother's syllable". The feat of paternity, captured in "Alenushkin's Tales", was intimate and was not intended for publication. Some of the writer's friends came up with the happy idea to publish in a single book works written for the writer's ailing daughter, Elena Dmitrievna Mamina. Indeed, in them, the enlightening credo of the writer, in a children's fairy tale who saw

the spring sunbeam, which awakens the dormant forces of the soul and causes the growth of seeds thrown on this noble soil.

The power of love of an intelligent, kind, talented Mama-father opens the boundaries of his own fairy tales into reality, forming the reader's trust in people and the world. This is the main artistic and pedagogical achievement of the writer. It is no coincidence that in a letter to his mother in December 1896, Mamin-Sibiryak noted: "This is my favorite book - it was written by love itself, and therefore it will outlive everyone else."

Questions and tasks

1. How in the stories of DN Mamin-Sibiryak the relationship between man and nature is revealed?

2. Tell us about the fate of the boy Proshka from the story "Skewer". What kind artistic means does the author use to emphasize the tragedy of the child's situation?

3. How is the mysterious life of nature revealed in the tales of Mamin-Sibiryak?

Tales of V.M. Garshin

The famous fairy tale "The Traveler Frog", which has become a textbook in children's reading, is the last work Vsevolod Mikhailovich Garshin (1855-1888), who died early and tragically. At the same time, the literary work of the writer accounts for a little more than ten years: from 1877 to 1887. The more valuable is his contribution to Russian children's literature.

Garshin entered the literature for young children as the author of several fairy tales. The writer's interest in fabulous and allegorical forms of narration arose under the influence of the democratic trend in the literature of the time. The satirical tales of M.E. Saltykov-Shchedrin, which have an axiological nature, had a great influence on Garshin: they speak about the world and man from the standpoint of eternal values \u200b\u200band moral truths, all accepted without proof. The allegorical meaning, in general, characteristic of Russian prose of the last third of the 19th century, has such famous works of the writer as "Attalea princeps" (1880), "Red Flower" (1883), "The Tale of the Toad and the Rose" (1884), "Frog -traveler "(1887).

The image of a palm tree under the feather of Garshin the storyteller becomes a symbol of an uncontrollable striving for freedom ( Attalea princeps). The fabulous collision (clash of opposing forces, interests, aspirations) of this work characterizes his mentality as essentially romantic: the dream of freedom, like any dream, often seems unattainable to him. And even more so the dream of the southern beauty-palm tree about the homeland. But the realistic foundations of the writer's creativity are just as strong. According to Garshin's own statement, he was prompted to create a fairy tale by a real incident in the botanical garden: one palm tree broke through the glass roof of the greenhouse and froze.

Experiencing a steady interest in children's literature, together with his brother Yevgeny Mikhailovich Garshin (1860-1931), the writer acted as a bibliographer of works for children, as an editor of reviews of modern children's literature. He often published his works in children's magazines. It was in the children's magazine "Rodnik" that Garshin's tale first appeared "Traveling Frog" which became the most famous work of the writer.

The spatio-temporal organization of this work is taken from a fairy tale. It starts like this:

Once upon a time there was a frog-frog.<... > Once she was sitting on a branch of a driftwood sticking out of the water.

And the accuracy and realistic plausibility of details - from a realistic story: to fly to the south "three thousand miles", the ducks decided to change "every two hours"; ducks fly south in autumn, "over harvested fields, over yellowed forests and over villages full of bread in stacks." As befits a wise storyteller, Garshin knows what all the characters are thinking and feeling. But the writer is interested in telling not so much about what exactly happened. It is important for him to explain to a growing person how and why this happened. Deeds fairytale heroes he motivates: these are the laws of written, not oral literature.

The main sign of the fairy-tale world is its implausibility. But in Garshin's work, all the author's comments appear as a manifestation of a completely reasonable, all-explanatory point of view of the character (frog) himself, and this quality of the writer's tale is original. The author of "The Frog the Traveler" seems to translate the narrative from a conventional, fabulous reality - into a real and reliable reality. From the folk epic about animals, Garshin adopts the principle of anthropomorphism (humanization of animals, manifested in the transmission of thoughts and speech of animal characters) in combination with zoomorphism (preservation of the appearance and habits of animals characteristic of them in a real, non-fabulous habitat). One can also notice in the writer's fairy tales echoes of the idea of \u200b\u200ba grateful animal that shows a person the way, which is characteristic of folklore fairy-tale prose. The author of The Frog-Traveler reinterprets the classic motive of the wisdom of a creature that has a magical connection with its ancestor, which is the basis for the folk tale “The Frog Princess”. But Garshin does not use the magic oral tale as a genre model. The initial situation of the Traveler Frog is characterized by well-being. There is no violation of the prohibition, no activity of the pest, there is no shortage, characteristic of folklore, - all those impulses in the development of action that can lead the hero from "misfortune" to "happiness." And for the whole century the frog "would have lived happily - of course, if the stork had not eaten it."

But in a fairy tale, and even more so in life, there is always a place for chance. However, it is not her, but solely his own qualities of the literary-fairy-tale Garshi character that determines the achievement or non-achievement of the final goal by the hero. The hero solves a difficult problem on his own. And the unusual itself appears to the writer as explainable, and within the framework of the proposed explanation is natural. The fabulous law “everything ends well” is carried out according to a realistic scheme. In it, the dispatch of the hero (the frog's journey) is clothed with a different meaning: the journey is no worse and no more dangerous than its opposite - to stay at home. And the Garshinskaya frog is close and understandable to the reader, although it is far from ideal. Her character traits do not undergo miraculous changes in the course of events. Two qualities - intelligence and vanity - are united by the writer in one character, and the plot conflict by the author of "The Frog the Traveler" is transferred from the external, physical space to the internal, psychological world of a literary hero, almost a human, which does not happen in an oral tale or in a fable ...

The heroine of "The Frog the Traveler" Garshin cannot escape the sin of narcissism and boasting. The trouble is that she cannot cope with her own emotions, with her "pride of authorship." The frog really wants everyone to know what exactly it occurred to her to travel in such an unusual way:

I came up with it! I found! - she said. - Let the two of you take a twig in their beaks, and I will cling to it in the middle. You will fly, and I will go. It is only necessary that you do not croak, and I do not croak ...

But she croaked, screamed with all her might: “It's me! I!". As a result, she “flew upside down on the ground” and only miraculously survived, “flung about” into a muddy pond at the edge of the village. But the Garshinskaya frog is sharp-witted in Russian: having got into a mess, it knows how to wriggle out. The heroine explains her unexpected appearance in a new place quite convincingly:

I stopped by to see you how you live<... > I will stay with you until spring, until my ducks, which I have released, return.

But the ducks never returned. They thought the frog had crashed to the ground and felt very sorry for her.

After all, with all her shortcomings, she is an inquisitive creature. And curiosity, as rumor has it, is not a vice.

But the toad from "Tales of the Toad and the Rose" Garshina is really disgusting, and not only outwardly. She is ugly inwardly: envious, spiteful, vengeful. The complete opposite of her is a rose, a symbol of harmony. According to the author, the conflict between good and evil, beauty and ugliness, life and death is eternal. But other values \u200b\u200bare just as eternal in the world: compassion and self-sacrifice, love and friendship, participation and the desire for effective help. This is the law of life that unites all living things: people, animals, plants.

The motives and images of V.M.Garshin's allegorical philosophical parables are sometimes unusual. But everything happens in a fairy tale. There the frogs travel too! And the fact that fictional reality is exposed to realistic comprehension in Garshin's tales is also important: in his development, a growing person is obliged to take a timely step from play to reality. Helping the child to grow up, Garshin shows sensitivity and foresight. Perhaps, first of all, this is what IS Turgenev had in mind, evaluating the talent of the writer as “undoubted” and “original”.

Questions and tasks

1. What are the features of Russians folk tales can be found in the tales of V. M. Garshin? What distinguishes the writer's tales from folk tales?

2. How is the theme of beauty revealed in The Tale of the Toad and the Rose?

3. How is the theme of freedom revealed in VM Garshin's fairy tale Attalea princeps?

Nature is all the natural wealth of the surrounding world, which is revealed to a young person in the process of cognition, labor and creativity. She lives by her own laws, and it is important for a person to understand these laws, since man and nature are a single whole.
The teacher's task is to help the child to fully see and understand the beauty of nature, to cultivate in him high moral qualities that are necessary for his subsequent development and formation as a person, as a person. Considering nature and morality as a whole, students develop a need for communication with nature, for a respectful attitude towards it.
Fiction about nature deeply affects the feelings of children. Through her, there is an acquaintance with the world around him, which reveals its secrets with the help of the book, brings up moral, aesthetic and other qualities of a person, begins to form a personality.
Books are a kind of platform where knowledge about nature is concentrated. On the basis of these books, the child's ideas are developed about what should be the attitude to the world around him. To get to know the world with the help of a natural history book means to be able to acquaint a child with many aspects of life that are important for him.
In this work, the stories of writers are of great help, who in their texts teach children not only to see the beauty of nature, but also to treat it with care.
The reading circle of younger schoolchildren under the School of Russia program includes works about the nature of such writers as V. Bianki, K. Paustovsky, E. Charushin, V. Berestov, I. Bunin, A. Pleshcheev, S. Yesenin, I. Sokolov -Mikitov, M. Prishvin et al.
The main theme of M.M. Prishvina - man and nature, their relationship and mutual influence.
In his works, the author serves as an example of respect for nature. His stories are able to awaken and develop those best human qualities that are necessary in life. Reading them, we broaden the horizons of children, we get real information, which can contain events that are actually similar to situations that can happen in real life. To love nature, you need to know it, and to know, you need to study it. It is necessary to systematically teach children to respect nature.
Prishvin perceives nature as a writer and as a scientist. He has very reliable and sharp-sighted observations, he does not have random words - each is verified, weighed and firmly put into a phrase. The main character in Prishvin's stories about nature is himself: a hunter, an observer, a scientist, an artist - a seeker of words, precise and poetic, a seeker of truth. The experiences of childhood "through hunting" ... This idea explains why so many hunting stories, as well as others, were addressed by the writer to children.
Speaking about Prishvin that he is a hunter, one should note his own expression: “After tea I went hunting for quails, starlings, grasshoppers, turtle doves, butterflies. I didn't have a gun then, and now I don't have to use a gun in my hunt. My hunt was then, and now - in finds. It was necessary to find something in nature that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one had ever met this in my life. " Thus, Prishvin was an observation hunter.
In his stories, Prishvin gives accurate real images, each image in his stories is individual and colorful.
Prishvin's animals and birds “hiss, buzz, yell, cook, whistle, squeak”; each of them moves in its own way. Even trees and plants in Pshvin's descriptions become alive: dandelions fall asleep in the evenings and wake up in the morning ("Golden Meadow"); like a hero, a mushroom emerges from under the leaves ("Strongman"); whispers the forest ("Whisper in the forest"). The writer not only perfectly knows nature, knows how to notice things that people often pass by indifferently, but also has the ability to convey the poetry of the world around them in descriptions, in comparisons: “Spruce, like a lady in a concert dress to the ground, and around there are young Christmas trees. "(" Edge ").
Throughout his life, Prishvin kept a child in himself, looking at the beautiful world with wide open, joyful and surprised eyes. Perhaps that is why the writer's stories are so easily perceived by children.

The heroes of the stories and stories of M. M. Prishvin form ideas about what a person should be and how he should relate to the world around him.
As my experience shows, through literary works you can acquaint children with phenomena and events that go beyond their personal life experience. The artistic prowess of the writer makes complex topics accessible.
Conversations based on the text of stories are very useful for a deeper understanding and active perception of what you read. The teacher can ask the children questions: Did you like the story? What is the main character by nature? What did you like about the actions of the hero and what did not? In the course of such a conversation, an elementary analysis of the work is carried out. Conversations can be divided into introductory - before reading the work, and concluding - after reading. In introductory or preliminary conversations, the teacher turns to the personal experience of each student, evokes in his memory the corresponding associations. For example, if you introduce children to Prishvin's story “The Talking Rook,” you can help the children remember everything they know about rooks by asking questions and looking at illustrations of a bird. To tell the children that rooks are very useful and smart and only after that read the story itself.
During the conversation, it is important to use visual aids that need to be selected in accordance with the content of the work. Conversations about the reading allow you to find the children's response to the work. It is very important to encourage children to express their own opinions about the actions of various characters, especially morally opposite types, to show responsiveness, the ability to regret, sympathize, rejoice, remember their negative and positive actions, which is also not unimportant, since the comprehension of their actions goes to a higher level. These tasks require painstaking, systematic work from the teacher. Here the questions arise: how to maintain and develop the good feelings that arise in children? How to create a situation in which they will actively act - help, defend justice?
A conversation about a work you have read is an important stage in the formation of ideas about the world around you.
Prishvin's stories are very informative. For example, in the story “Hedgehog” ”children learn about the animal's habits, in“ Golden Meadow ”- that a dandelion goes to bed in the evening, closing its petals, and wakes up in the morning.
It is very interesting for children to know that not only their mother loves and cares for them, but that animals also have maternal love. Such maternal love can be seen in the stories "The Queen of Spades" and "Elk". It turns out that they also have, like us: parents take care and protect their children. Their children are the same carefree foolish little ones: they got out on the shore and let's play, not paying attention to the hunter, but they played enough - to their mother, and she took them ...

Especially close to children is the idea of \u200b\u200bthe unity of man and nature. So in the story "Floors of the Forest" the author draws a parallel between people and animals. As people live in high-rise buildings on a certain floor, birds and animals live on their own floor. But if people can easily go down to another floor, changing the apartment to another, then the animals cannot do this: “The nuts could not answer us, but, most importantly, they could not understand what happened, where the tree went, where did they disappear their children ... Then we took that big piece, which contained the nest, broke the top of the neighboring birch and put our piece with the nest on it just at the same height as the destroyed floor. " Only then did the gadgets find their chicks.
Reading the works of Prishvin, children form the concept of good and evil. So, in the story “Hedgehog”, Prishvin very well described his relationship with the hedgehog, showed how with the help of a kind attitude you can tame a wild animal: “So the hedgehog settled down with me. And now, like drinking tea, I will certainly have it on my table and then pour milk into a saucer - drink it, then give it a bun - eat it.
In M. Prishvin's story "Guys and Ducklings", a meeting of the writer with children is depicted. The guys did a bad deed: they knocked down with their hats and caught wild ducks. However, after talking with the writer, they realized that they had done wrong, and they let the ducklings go.
The story teaches to be humane, kind, generous, fosters love for nature, respect for birds.
The task of the teacher is to convey the main idea of \u200b\u200bthe story (love and take care of nature, be a kind owner of your land), to help understand that the guys did wrong, and at the end of the story, when the children realized their mistake, to be happy for them.

Section "On Courage and Love"

Verification work No. 3Option 1

Main part

Read a passage from the text.

One winter, through the snow, I went to Lydia for milk and heard the hostess swearing in the house.

It turns out that Lydia scolded Malka for bringing two puppies. The fry looked in bewilderment into the eyes of the mistress, wagged her tail guiltily and did not understand why she was being scolded so much. I looked under the bench: there, in an old hat with earflaps, two tiny little kittens were floundering helplessly.

Lydia scolded Malka for two days, on the third she said:

Okay, let them live.

Then I heard that one puppy was taken by a tractor driver who often drove through the village. Lydia carried the second across the river to a neighboring village.

Once I saw: Malka was running along the path from a neighboring village across the river. Alone, lonely. He runs home briskly, does not look back at anything. Crooked legs flicker on the white snow. The next day - again. I was surprised: where is she running? Yesstill every day and always at the same time. I asked Lydia:

• Where is Malka running every day?
• Yes, feed! - said Lydia cheerfully. - From day to day and runs, nothing to stop. I scolded her, and locked her in the hut, everything was in vain. As soon as you turn away, the job is ready. Was yes no, ran to feed her child.

That's so, I think, Malka! What a faithful mother turned out to be. Every day, two kilometers away to a strange village, in spite of any dangers, he runs to feed his son. Not everyone can do that.

(textbook 3 cl., part 1, p. 93)

1. V.I.Belov. Faithful and Malka
2. L. N. Tolstoy. Bounce
3. V.I.Belov. The fry is guilty

1. How to say it correctly? This is an excerpt from:

1. poems, 2) fairy tales, 3) stories.

1. What phrase describes Malka's behavior after the owner Lydia took one of her puppies to a neighboring village? Point V to the correct answer.

1. "... with bewilderment she looked into the eyes of the hostess, guiltily wagged her tail and did not understand why she was so scolded",
2. "... he always barks at a guest, otherwise he will bite his leg",
3. “... runs home busily, does not look back at anything. Crooked legs flicker on the white snow. "

1. How does the author feel about Malka's act? Briefly write about it and explain why you decided so.
2. Explain the meaning of the word "wasted". Choose synonyms for it .___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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Additional part

7.How to say it correctly? It:

1) prosaic text,

2) poetic text.

9.What can you say about Malka's character after reading this text? Write about it briefly _______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 10. What other stories have you read about Malka? Indicate their name .________________________________________________________________

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Work N2 3 Option 2

Main part

Read the text.

I was returning from hunting and walking along the alley of the garden. The dog ran ahead of me.

Suddenly she reduced her steps and began to sneak, as if smelling the game in front of her.

I looked along the alley and saw a young sparrow with yellowness near its beak and down on its head. He fell out of the nest (the wind strongly swayed the birches of the alley) and sat motionless, helplessly spreading out his barely growing wings.

My dog \u200b\u200bslowly approached him, when suddenly, having fallen from a nearby tree, an old black-chested sparrow fell like a stone in front of her muzzle - and all disheveled, distorted, with a desperate and pitiful squeak, jumped once or twice in the direction of the toothy open mouth.

He rushed to save, he covered his brainchild with himself ... but his whole little body trembled with horror, his voice grew wild and hoarse, he died away, he sacrificed himself!

What a huge monster the dog must have seemed to him! And yet he could not sit on a high, safe branch ... A force stronger than his will threw him out of there.

My Trezor stopped, backed away ... Apparently, and he recognized this power. I hastened to recall the embarrassed dog and left, reverent.

Yes, don't laugh. I was in awe of that little, heroic bird, of her love impulse.

Love, I thought, is stronger than death and the fear of death. Only by her, only by love does life hold and move.

(textbook grade 3, part 1, p. 97)

1. Indicate the title and author of the text. Put next to the selected number V.

1. V.P. Astafiev. Belohrudka
2. L. N. Tolstoy. Bounce
3. I. S. Turgenev. Sparrow

1. What is the story about? Write about it briefly.
2. How to say it correctly? It:

1. folklore work,
2. author's text.

Briefly explain why you decided so.

1. What phrases describe the behavior of an old black-chested sparrow that fell from a tree in front of the dog's face? Point V to the correct answer.

1. "... sat motionless, helplessly spreading barely sprouting wings",
2. "... all disheveled, distorted, with a desperate and pitiful squeak, he jumped once or twice in the direction of the toothy open mouth",
3. "... embarrassed, ... withdrew, reverent."

1. How does the author feel about the act of the old black-chested sparrow? Briefly write about it and explain why you think so.
2. Explain the meaning of the expression: TREQUENT FROM HORROR.