MUNICIPAL EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTION

BALASHIKH URBAN DISTRICT

LYCEUM

Integrated lesson in 8th grade

(Russian language and literature).

The role of homogeneous members in literary texts.

I. S. Turgenev "Forest and steppe".

Prepared

Egupova A.G.

Balashikha 2009

Target: 1. Fix the punctuation with homogeneous members of the sentence.

2. Show the figurative role of homogeneous members in Turgenev's story "Forest and Steppe".

3. Develop the ability to see the beauty of nature.

Lesson equipment:1. Text of the work.

2. On the board on the sheets there is an epigraph: “No matter how much you write more stories

And drama, you will not get ahead of your Iliad, your Notes

Hunter": there are no mistakes, there you are simple, high, classic,

There lie the pearls of your muse." (From a letter from I.A. Goncharov to I.S.

During the classes.

1. Introductory speech of the teacher.

In previous lessons, we worked on punctuation with homogeneous members. Today our task is to determine the role of homogeneous members in literary texts. At home, you read the story of I. S. Turgenev "Forest and Steppe" from the collection "Notes of a Hunter".

Remember which stories from this collection we have already discussed in grades 6,7,8 and what literary problems have been singled out?

(“Bezhin meadow”, “Biryuk”, “Singers”, “Khor and Kalinich”. Problems: Russian national character, means of characterizing the hero in stories.)

A little about the work in the context of the writer's work. "Hunter's Notes"

They were a transition from the initial period of Turgenev's work, during which he created many poems , to a new stage, to a realistic prose . Turgenev, who set himself new creative tasks, turned to a new genre - short stories - to implement them. essays which are characteristic of the writers of the "natural school".

11. Explanatory dictation.(Punctuation marks in a simple sentence complicated

Application with the union HOW, Separate definition, expressed by the participial

Turnover, homogeneous members, homogeneous members with a generalizing word, a dash between

Subject and predicate, in a complex sentence).

Turgenev entered Russian literature () as the author of the "Notes of a Hunter". Everything (,) that happens in the world of people (,) in society (:) wars and revolutions (,) reforms and disputes about the future (-) all this is transient. Nature is eternal (,) and (,) when a person is left alone with her (,) he feels on himself her formidable (,) inexorable (,) beautiful and blind force. A hunter (–) is a person (,) standing between the human world and the natural world.

111. Work on the artistic and syntactic means of passages.

1. Primary perception of the text. Description of the steppe by I. Turgenev (“Forest and Steppe”). Reading by heart (homework).

Further, further!.. Let's go steppe places. You look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed up and sown to the top, scatter in broad waves; ravines overgrown with bushes wind between them; small groves are scattered in oblong islands; Narrow paths run from village to village... But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, the trees are almost invisible. Here it is at last - the boundless, boundless steppe!..

2. Analysis of the passage (individual homework).

– The book by I. Turgenev “Notes of a Hunter” ends with the essay “Forest and Steppe”. These are pictures of nature at different times of the year: spring, summer, autumn.

The steppe landscape seems realistic and concrete in Turgenev: hills, ravines, small groves, narrow paths. This realism, perhaps, is achieved by the fact that the reader, together with the writer, tangibly sees and feels the steppe. In this passage, I feel like a hunter's companion, Turgenev writes:you go, you look from the mountain.That is why there are almost no paths in the text. After all, Turgenev is us. And sometimes we just think thathills scatter, ravines wind, groves are scattered, paths run(personifications). He compares the hills to breaking waves. I met a similar comparison in the description of the steppe in Gogol's story "Taras Bulba". Probably, this is how the writers convey the immensity, the immensity of the steppe.
The Turgenev steppe is full of movement. The text has a special syntax: long non-union sentences, as long and monotonous as the road itself in the steppe. Hence the repetitions: further, further ... and again further and further into the steppe, the hills are getting smaller and smaller.
Turgenev, when looking at the steppe, is delighted:what a view!; boundless, boundless steppe!

3. Primary perception of the text. Description of the forest in late autumn. Reading by heart (individual homework).

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow meadows. Through the bare brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look at the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...

4. Work on artistic and syntactic means.

When is the forest especially good in late autumn?

When the woodcocks arrive.

What was unusual about that day in the forest?

There was dead silence.

How did we guess this, by what words?

No wind, no sun, no light.

Write the sentence in your notebook:There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise.Sort by members of the proposal.

What did you notice?

A sentence with homogeneous secondary members.

Why do you think Turgenev needed so many homogeneous members?

To show dead silence.

Indeed, such an enumeration allows the author to figuratively paint a picture of the soundlessness of the forest. Silence... There are no sounds in the forest. Does the writer smell any?

Autumn scent.

What does he compare it to?

With the smell of wine.

How do you understand the expression: "Autumn smell is in the air"?

The smell is felt everywhere, not in one place.

What else does Turgenev describe?

Brown boughs of trees through which the still sky shines white. Limes, on which hang the last golden leaves. Damp earth, pale grass.

Everything speaks of late autumn. However, this autumn appears before us in such a way that it seems to us that it is an early fine autumn. Look at the sky

- "The motionless sky is peacefully whitening."

What leaves?

Golden.

What land?

Damp earth, but it is elastic, not a "dirty puddle".

Pay attention to the offer:Long threads glitter on the pale grass.What does this show look like?

On the web that flies at the time of "Indian summer".

So, the whole description of the forest is reminiscent of early autumn. However, by what words do we guess that autumn is still late?

Bare branches of trees, damp earth, pale grass, the last leaves.

Is it only the description of the forest in the passage?

The description also refers to the yellow fields that the author sees next to the forest, walking along the edge.

5. Word drawing.

Read the description of the forest again to yourself and try to imagine the picture as the writer saw it. Describe in words.

1. What will be drawn? ( content ).

2. How do we arrange the objects in the picture: what is in the foreground, what is in the distance, what is on the right, what is on the left, what will be shown in the center, where will we depict the author with a dog? ( composition).

3. What paints do we use for the painting? (color solution).

6. Revealing the reader's perception.

Do you think the author himself likes such a forest?

Yes.

How did you guess?

He's writing: Calmly breathing chest.

What especially attracts a writer in the forest?

Special peace and quiet.

What happens in Turgenev's soul when he walks along the edge of the forest?

He recalls his past, his heart trembles and beats - after all, beloved faces, dead and alive, come to mind.

Why do you think Turgenev suddenly manages to remember his past?

Nothing prevents him, at such moments I want to grieve a little about the past years, about the experience.

Indeed, guys, nature, its state of rest find a spiritual response from Turgenev. It is in such extraordinary silence that one wants to remember something pleasant, to imagine something. Have you ever been in such an environment? What did you feel? What were you thinking about?

Children's statements.

What figurative expressions does Turgenev use in the second part of the passage?

- "The impression wakes up, the imagination flies and rushes like a bird. The heart either rushes forward, or drowns in memories."

With what does the writer compare life in these moments?

With a scroll.

Why?

Life is long: it has a past, present and future. It looks like a scroll, but if you start to remember something, you need to unroll it like a scroll.

What mood is created in you when you read this passage?

Mood of mild sadness. Calm mood.

7. Work on expressive reading of the passage.

Why is the first sentence an exclamation point?

Where do we start to increase the tempo, the volume?

From the words "You go along the edge ...".

Where can we slow down again?

On the last offer.

Prepare for expressive reading.

The children are doing the task.

What did we read the text about?

About the forest on a quiet fine day in late autumn.

8. Determining the type of text.

What is the type of text?

Description with narrative elements.

Prove your point.

Children prove.

Determine the main idea of ​​the text.

Nature affects the state of mind of a person.

9. Conclusion. Yes, guys, solitude with nature is a special state. A person who happens to be alone with nature, to feel its beauty, strength, begins in these moments to think about many things, think about his actions, about his attitude to loved ones and to himself. Such moments of communication between man and nature make him spiritually richer, purer, wiser. Nature is a great force that controls everything, including man with his soul and heart.

1V. Checking homework. Read sentences with homogeneous members.

We have already defined the role of homogeneous secondary members in the third sentence. Find in the text more sentences with homogeneous members. (Children read out the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth sentences).

How are the homogeneous members of the sentence expressed in each case?

Homogeneous predicates:you go, you look; flies and rushes; moving and standing; tremble and beat, rush forward, drown; homogeneous subjects: images, faces ; homogeneous secondary members:the dead and the living; easy and fast; all the past, all the feelings, forces, all the soul; no sun, no wind, no noise.

Recall why we need sentences with homogeneous members?

To make our speech more concise, clear.

Why do you think Turgenev used the adjective twice favorite in the sentence: "... favorite images, favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind"?

By repeating the adjective, he wanted to increase the feeling of love for these persons, to emphasize how much they are loved.

You see, in some cases it is possible to repeat the same words twice! Pay attention to the repetition of homogeneous terms at the beginning of the text and at the end. Why do you think the author did this?

Conclusion. So, the role of homogeneous members of the sentence in the text is obvious. Homogeneous predicates help vividly, figuratively draw a picture of what is happening; homogeneous subjects help to present the objects in question; homogeneous minor terms help to make the description more precise. Every detail of nature is dear to Turgenev as one more stroke of a beautiful, boundless, monumental picture.

V. Compilation of the text "Beautiful in native nature and in the human soul." The task is to use homogeneous members.

V1. Reading texts.

V11. Reading a cultural pattern.

In the story "The Forest and the Steppe", Turgenev's deep and tender love for nature, his penetrating observation are clearly visible. The abundance and brightness of emotional epithets, comparisons, metaphors, exclamatory sentences used by the narrator convey his enthusiastic attitude towards nature. He wants to captivate the reader, about which constant appeals, appeals aimed at awakening the reader's imagination and feelings, making him feel the author's feelings.

References.

1. Lobkova E.V. Description of the steppe in the works of Gogol, Turgenev, Chekhov. Preparation for writing an essay-review. – "First of September", "Literature", section "I'm going to the lesson".

Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev

FOREST AND STEPPE

... And little by little the beginning back
Pull him: to the village, to the dark garden,
Where the lindens are so huge, so shady,
And lilies of the valley are so virginally fragrant,
Where are the round willows above the water
From the dam they leaned in succession,
Where a fat oak grows over a fat cornfield,
Where it smells of hemp and nettles ...
There, there, in the open fields,
Where the earth turns black with velvet,
Where is the rye, wherever you throw your eyes,
It flows quietly with soft waves.
And a heavy yellow beam falls
Because of transparent, white, round clouds;
It's good there. . . . . . . . .

(From a poem burnt)

The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to confine myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot but say a few words about the hunt.

Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, fur sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot but envy our brother... Listen.

Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to leave in the spring before dawn? You go out onto the porch ... In the dark gray sky, stars twinkle here and there; a damp breeze occasionally runs in a light wave; a restrained, indistinct whisper of the night is heard; the trees faintly rustle, drenched in shade. Here they put a carpet on the cart, put a box with a samovar at the feet. The tie-downs huddle, snort, and dapperly step over their feet; a pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the wattle fence, in the garden, the watchman snores peacefully; each sound seems to stand in the frozen air, stands and does not pass. Here you sat down; the horses set off at once, the cart rattled loudly ... You drive - you drive past the church, from the mountain to the right, across the dam ... The pond barely begins to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with the collar of your overcoat; you are dozing. Horses slap their feet loudly through the puddles; the coachman whistles. But now you have driven off about four versts ... The edge of the sky is turning red; in birch trees they wake up, jackdaws awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air is brighter, the road is more visible, the sky is clearer, the clouds are turning white, the fields are turning green. Splinters burn with red fire in the huts, sleepy voices are heard outside the gates. And meanwhile the dawn flares up; golden streaks have already stretched across the sky, vapors swirl in the ravines; the larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blew - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will rush in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, love! Visible all around. There is a village beyond the grove; over there is another one with a white church, over there is a birch forest on the mountain; behind it is a swamp, where are you going ... Quicker, horses, quicker! Big trot ahead! .. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising fast; the sky is clear... The weather will be nice. The herd stretched out of the village towards you. You climbed the mountain... What a view! The river winds for ten versts, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery-green meadows; gentle hills beyond the meadows; in the distance, lapwings hover over the swamp with a cry; through the damp sheen, spilled in the air, the distance clearly stands out ... not like in summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring! ..

A summer, July morning! Who, except the hunter, has experienced how gratifying it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? A green line lies the trace of your feet on the dewy, whitened grass. You will move apart a wet bush - you will be showered with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the air is full of fresh bitterness of wormwood, honey of buckwheat and "porridge"; in the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and the sun shines and reddens; still fresh, already felt the proximity of the heat. Head languidly spinning from an excess of fragrance. There is no end to the shrub... In some places, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. Here the cart creaked; a peasant makes his way, puts the horse in the shade in advance ... You greeted him, moved away - the sonorous clang of a scythe is heard behind you. The sun is getting higher and higher. Grass dries quickly. It's already hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; the still air blazes with prickly heat.

Where, brother, here to get drunk? - you ask the mower.

And over there, in the ravine, a well.

Through dense hazel bushes, entangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Precisely: under the very cliff there is a source; an oak bush greedily spread its palmate boughs over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom, covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe odorous dampness; you feel good, but against you the bushes become hot and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came up and rushed; the air trembled all around: is it not thunder? You are coming out of a ravine… what is that lead line in the sky? Is the heat thickening? Is a cloud approaching?.. But then the lightning flashed weakly ... Eh, yes, this is a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing: its front edge is stretched out by a sleeve, tilted by a vault. Grass, bushes, everything suddenly darkened ... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see a hay shed ... hurry up! .. You ran and entered ... What is the rain like? what are lightning bolts? In some places, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay ... But then the sun began to play again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles all around, how fresh and liquid the air, how it smells of wild strawberries and mushrooms!..

But then the evening comes. The dawn blazed with fire and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; in the distance lies a soft steam, warm in appearance; together with the dew, a scarlet gleam falls on the glades, until recently drenched in streams of liquid gold; long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the high stacks of hay... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of ​​the sunset... Here it is turning pale; blue sky; separate shadows disappear, the air is filled with haze. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing a gun over your shoulders, you quickly go, despite your fatigue ... And meanwhile, night is coming; for twenty steps it is no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky is vaguely clear ... What is it? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. And down below, to the right, the lights of the village are already flickering ... Finally, your hut. Through the window you see a table covered with a white tablecloth, a burning candle, dinner ...

And then you order to lay the racing droshky and go to the forest for hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears of wheat softly beat you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; long, hanging branches of birches hardly move; a mighty oak stands like a fighter, next to a beautiful linden. You are driving along a green, shadowy path; big yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, brightening in the shade, darkening in the sun; the birds howl peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds innocent, talkative joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest is dying... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and the surroundings are so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came up, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown foliage; mushrooms stand separately under their caps. A hare suddenly jumps out, a dog with a sonorous bark rushes after ...

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look at the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...

And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...

I. S. Turgenev. Hunter's Notes

Forest and steppe

And little by little start back
Pull him: to the village, to the dark garden,
Where the lindens are so huge, so shady,
And lilies of the valley are so virginally fragrant,
Where are the round willows above the water
From the dam they leaned in succession,
Where a fat oak grows over a fat cornfield,
Where it smells like hemp and nettle...
There, there, in the open fields,
Where the earth turns black with velvet,
Where is the rye, wherever you throw your eyes,
It flows quietly with soft waves.
And a heavy yellow beam falls
Because of transparent, white, round clouds;
It's good there ........................................................

(From a poem burnt.)

The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to confine myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot but say a few words about the hunt. Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, für sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot but envy our brother... Listen.

Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to leave in the spring before dawn? You go out onto the porch ... In the dark gray sky, stars twinkle here and there; a damp breeze occasionally runs in a light wave; a restrained, indistinct whisper of the night is heard; the trees faintly rustle, drenched in shade. Here they put a carpet on the cart, put a box with a samovar at the feet. The tie-downs huddle, snort, and dapperly step over their feet; a pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the wattle fence, in the garden, the watchman snores peacefully; each sound seems to stand in the frozen air, stands and does not pass.

Here you sat down; the horses set off at once, the cart rattled loudly ... You are driving - you are driving past the church, from the mountain to the right, across the dam ... The pond barely begins to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with a hissing collar; you are dozing. Horses slap their feet loudly through the puddles; the coachman whistles.

But now you have driven off about four versts ... The edge of the sky is turning red; in birch trees they wake up, jackdaws awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air is brighter, the road is more visible, the sky is clearer, the clouds are turning white, the fields are turning green. Splinters burn with red fire in the huts, sleepy voices are heard outside the gates.

And meanwhile the dawn flares up; golden streaks have already stretched across the sky, vapors swirl in the ravines; the larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blew - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will rush in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, love! Visible all around. There is a village beyond the grove; over there is another one with a white church, over there is a birch forest on the mountain; behind it is a swamp, where are you going ...

Live, horses, live! Big trot ahead! .. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising fast; the sky is clear... The weather will be glorious. The herd stretched out of the village towards you. You climbed a mountain... What a view! The river winds for ten versts, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery-green meadows; gentle hills beyond the meadows; in the distance, lapwings hover over the swamp with a cry; through the damp sheen, spilled in the air, the distance clearly stands out ... not like in summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring! ..

A summer, July morning! Who, except the hunter, has experienced how gratifying it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? A green line lies the trace of your feet on the dewy, whitened grass. You will move apart a wet bush - you will be showered with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the air is full of fresh bitterness of wormwood, honey of buckwheat and "porridge"; in the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and glistens and reddens in the sun; It's still fresh, but the proximity of the heat is already felt. Head languidly spinning from an excess of fragrance. The bush has no end...

In some places, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. Here the cart creaked; A peasant makes his way at a step, puts the horse in advance in the shade ... You greeted him, moved away - the sonorous clang of a scythe is heard behind you. The sun is getting higher and higher. Grass dries quickly. It's already hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; the still air blazes with prickly heat.

Where, brother, here to get drunk? - you ask the mower. - And there, in the ravine, a well.

Through dense hazel bushes, entangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Precisely: under the very cliff there is a source; an oak bush greedily spread its palmate boughs over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom, covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe odorous dampness; you feel good, but against you the bushes become hot and seem to turn yellow in the sun.

But what is it? The wind suddenly came up and rushed; the air trembled all around: is it not thunder? You are coming out of a ravine... what is that lead line in the sky? Is the heat thickening? Is a cloud approaching?.. But then the lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it's a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing: its front edge is stretched out by a sleeve, tilted by a vault. Grass, bushes, everything suddenly darkened ... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see a hay shed ... hurry! .. You ran and entered ... What is the rain like? what are lightning bolts? Here and there, through the thatched roof, water dripped onto the fragrant hay...

But now the sun is up again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles all around, how fresh and liquid the air, how it smells of wild strawberries and mushrooms!..

But then the evening comes. The dawn blazed with fire and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; in the distance lies a soft steam, warm in appearance; together with the dew, a scarlet gleam falls on the glades, until recently drenched in streams of liquid gold; long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the high stacks of hay...

The sun has set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of ​​the sunset... Here it is turning pale; blue sky; separate shadows disappear, the air is filled with haze. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing your gun over your shoulders, you are walking fast, despite your fatigue ... And meanwhile, night is falling; for twenty steps it is no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky is vaguely clear... What is it? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. And down below, to the right, the lights of the village are already flickering ...

Finally, here is your hut. Through the window you see a table covered with a white tablecloth, a burning candle, dinner...

And then you order to lay the racing droshky and go to the forest for hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears of wheat softly beat you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; long, hanging branches of birches hardly move; a mighty oak stands like a fighter, next to a beautiful linden. You are driving along a green, shadowy path; big yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, brightening in the shade, darkening in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds innocent, talkative joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley.

Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest is dying... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and the surroundings are so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came up, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown foliage; mushrooms stand separately under their caps. A hare suddenly jumps out, a dog with a ringing bark rushes after ...

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass.

The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look at the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before your eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...

And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...

Foggy summer days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you can’t shoot: a bird, fluttering out from under your feet, immediately disappears in the whitish haze of a motionless fog. But how quiet, how unspeakably quiet all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it basks. Through thin steam, evenly poured in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You mistake her for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of sagebrush on the boundary. Above you, all around you, fog is everywhere... But then the wind stirs slightly - a patch of pale blue sky vaguely emerges through thinning steam, as if smoking, a golden-yellow ray bursts suddenly, streams in a long stream, strikes the fields, rests against the grove - and here it all went haywire again. This struggle has been going on for a long time; but how unspeakably magnificent and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread out like tablecloths, or soar and disappear in the deep, gently shining heights ...

But now you have gathered in the outgoing field, in the steppe. About ten versts you made your way along country roads - here, finally, is a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through boundless fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from rakita to rakita; women, with a long rake in their hands, wander into the field; a passer-by in a worn nanke coat, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, harnessed by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. A corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the heels, on a bag, holding on to a string, a footman in an overcoat sits sideways, spattered to the very eyebrows. Here is a county town with crooked wooden houses, endless fences, uninhabited stone buildings of merchants, an ancient bridge over a deep ravine ... Further, further! ..

Steppe places have gone. You look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed up and sown to the top, scatter in broad waves; ravines overgrown with bushes wind between them; small groves are scattered in oblong islands; narrow paths run from village to village; the churches are whitening; a river sparkles between the vineyards, intercepted by dams in four places; far away in the field, drachvas stick out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, the tree is almost invisible.

Here it is at last - the boundless, boundless steppe! And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts for hares, breathing in frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring the green color of the sky over a reddish forest! .. And the first spring days, when everything around shines and collapses, through The steam of melted snow already smells of warm earth, on the thawed patches, under the slanting ray of the sun, larks sing trustingly, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, streams swirl from ravine to ravine ... However, it's time to end. By the way, I started talking about spring: in spring it is easy to part, in spring the happy ones are drawn into the distance ... Farewell, reader; I wish you continued well-being.

Turgenev I.S.

And little by little start back
Pull him: to the village, to the dark garden,
Where the lindens are so huge, so shady,
And lilies of the valley are so virginally fragrant,
Where are the round willows above the water
From the dam they leaned in succession,
Where a fat oak grows over a fat cornfield,
Where it smells like hemp and nettle...
There, there, in the open fields,
Where the earth turns black with velvet,
Where is the rye, wherever you throw your eyes,
It flows quietly with soft waves.
And a heavy yellow beam falls
Because of transparent, white, round clouds;
It's good there................................................ ........

(From a poem burnt.)

The reader may already be bored with my notes; I hasten to reassure him with a promise to confine myself to printed passages; but, parting with him, I cannot but say a few words about the hunt.

Hunting with a gun and a dog is beautiful in itself, fur sich, as they used to say in the old days; but suppose you were not born a hunter: you still love nature; you, therefore, cannot but envy our brother... Listen.

Do you know, for example, what a pleasure it is to leave in the spring before dawn? You go out onto the porch ... In the dark gray sky, stars twinkle here and there; a damp breeze occasionally runs in a light wave; a restrained, indistinct whisper of the night is heard; the trees faintly rustle, drenched in shade. Here they put a carpet on the cart, put a box with a samovar at the feet. The tie-downs huddle, snort, and dapperly step over their feet; a pair of white geese that have just woken up silently and slowly move across the road. Behind the wattle fence, in the garden, the watchman snores peacefully; each sound seems to stand in the frozen air, stands and does not pass. Here you sat down; the horses set off at once, the cart rattled loudly ... You are driving - you are driving past the church, from the mountain to the right, across the dam ... The pond barely begins to smoke. You are a little cold, you cover your face with a hissing collar; you are dozing. Horses slap their feet loudly through the puddles; the coachman whistles. But now you have driven off about four versts ... The edge of the sky is turning red; in birch trees they wake up, jackdaws awkwardly fly; sparrows chirp near the dark stacks. The air is brighter, the road is more visible, the sky is clearer, the clouds are turning white, the fields are turning green. Splinters burn with red fire in the huts, sleepy voices are heard outside the gates. And meanwhile the dawn flares up; golden streaks have already stretched across the sky, vapors swirl in the ravines; the larks sing loudly, the pre-dawn wind blew - and the crimson sun quietly rises. The light will rush in like a stream; your heart will flutter like a bird. Fresh, fun, love! Visible all around. There is a village beyond the grove; over there is another one with a white church, over there is a birch forest on the mountain; behind it is a swamp, where are you going ... Quicker, horses, quicker! Big trot ahead! .. Three versts left, no more. The sun is rising fast; the sky is clear... The weather will be glorious. The herd stretched out of the village towards you. You climbed a mountain... What a view! The river winds for ten versts, dimly blue through the fog; behind it are watery-green meadows; gentle hills beyond the meadows; in the distance, lapwings hover over the swamp with a cry; through the damp sheen, spilled in the air, the distance clearly stands out ... not like in summer. How freely the chest breathes, how cheerfully the limbs move, how the whole person grows stronger, embraced by the fresh breath of spring! ..

A summer, July morning! Who, except the hunter, has experienced how gratifying it is to wander through the bushes at dawn? A green line lies the trace of your feet on the dewy, whitened grass. You will move apart a wet bush - you will be showered with the accumulated warm smell of the night; the air is full of fresh bitterness of wormwood, honey of buckwheat and "porridge"; in the distance, an oak forest stands like a wall and glistens and reddens in the sun; It's still fresh, but the proximity of the heat is already felt. Head languidly spinning from an excess of fragrance. There is no end to the shrub... In some places, in the distance, ripening rye turns yellow, buckwheat turns red in narrow stripes. Here the cart creaked; A peasant makes his way at a step, puts the horse in advance in the shade ... You greeted him, moved away - the sonorous clang of a scythe is heard behind you. The sun is getting higher and higher. Grass dries quickly. It's already hot. An hour passes, then another... The sky darkens around the edges; the still air blazes with prickly heat.

Where, brother, here to get drunk? - you ask the mower.

And over there, in the ravine, a well.

Through dense hazel bushes, entangled with tenacious grass, you descend to the bottom of the ravine. Precisely: under the very cliff there is a source; an oak bush greedily spread its palmate boughs over the water; large silvery bubbles, swaying, rise from the bottom, covered with fine, velvety moss. You throw yourself on the ground, you are drunk, but you are too lazy to move. You are in the shade, you breathe odorous dampness; you feel good, but against you the bushes become hot and seem to turn yellow in the sun. But what is it? The wind suddenly came up and rushed; the air trembled all around: is it not thunder? You are coming out of a ravine... what is that lead line in the sky? Is the heat thickening? Is a cloud approaching?.. But then the lightning flashed faintly... Eh, yes, it's a thunderstorm! The sun is still shining brightly all around: you can still hunt. But the cloud is growing: its front edge is stretched out by a sleeve, tilted by a vault. Grass, bushes, everything suddenly darkened ... Hurry! over there, it seems, you can see a hay shed ... hurry up! .. You ran and entered ... What is the rain like? what are lightning bolts? In some places, water dripped onto the fragrant hay through the thatched roof ... But then the sun began to play again. The storm has passed; Are you getting off. My God, how cheerfully everything sparkles all around, how fresh and liquid the air, how it smells of wild strawberries and mushrooms!..

But then the evening comes. The dawn blazed with fire and engulfed half the sky. The sun is setting. The air nearby is somehow especially transparent, like glass; in the distance lies a soft steam, warm in appearance; together with the dew, a scarlet gleam falls on the glades, until recently drenched in streams of liquid gold; long shadows ran from the trees, from the bushes, from the high stacks of hay... The sun had set; the star has lit up and trembles in the fiery sea of ​​the sunset... Here it is turning pale; blue sky; separate shadows disappear, the air is filled with haze. It's time to go home, to the village, to the hut where you spend the night. Throwing your gun over your shoulders, you are walking fast, despite your fatigue ... And meanwhile, night is falling; for twenty steps it is no longer visible; the dogs barely turn white in the darkness. Over there, above the black bushes, the edge of the sky is vaguely clear... What is it? fire?.. No, it's the moon rising. And down below, to the right, the lights of the village are already flickering ... Here is your hut at last. Through the window you see a table covered with a white tablecloth, a burning candle, dinner...

And then you order to lay the racing droshky and go to the forest for hazel grouse. It's fun to make your way along a narrow path, between two walls of high rye. Ears of wheat softly beat you in the face, cornflowers cling to your legs, quails scream all around, the horse runs at a lazy trot. Here is the forest. Shadow and silence. Stately aspens babble high above you; long, hanging branches of birches hardly move; a mighty oak stands like a fighter, next to a beautiful linden. You are driving along a green, shadowy path; big yellow flies hang motionless in the golden air and suddenly fly away; midges curl in a column, brightening in the shade, darkening in the sun; the birds sing peacefully. The golden voice of the robin sounds innocent, talkative joy: it goes to the smell of lilies of the valley. Further, further, deeper into the forest... The forest is dying... An inexplicable silence sinks into the soul; and the surroundings are so drowsy and quiet. But then the wind came up, and the tops rustled like falling waves. Tall grasses grow here and there through last year's brown foliage; mushrooms stand separately under their caps. A hare suddenly jumps out, a dog with a ringing bark rushes after ...

And how beautiful this same forest is in late autumn, when the woodcocks arrive! They do not stay in the wilderness itself: they must be sought along the edge. There is no wind, and there is no sun, no light, no shadow, no movement, no noise; in the soft air there is an autumn smell, like the smell of wine; a thin mist hangs in the distance over the yellow fields. Through the bare, brown boughs of the trees, the still sky peacefully whitens; in some places the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glitter on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, and a strange anxiety finds in the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look at the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, impressions that have long since fallen asleep suddenly wake up; the imagination flies and flies like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before your eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then irretrievably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; man owns all his past, all his feelings, forces, all his soul. And nothing around him interferes - there is no sun, no wind, no noise ...

And an autumn, clear, slightly cold, frosty day in the morning, when a birch, like a fairy-tale tree, all golden, is beautifully drawn in a pale blue sky, when the low sun no longer warms, but shines brighter than summer, a small aspen grove all sparkles through, as if it is fun and easy for her to stand naked, the frost still turns white at the bottom of the valleys, and the fresh wind quietly stirs and drives the fallen warped leaves - when blue waves joyfully rush along the river, rhythmically raising scattered geese and ducks; in the distance the mill knocks, half-covered with willows, and, motley in the bright air, doves quickly circle over it ...

Foggy summer days are also good, although hunters do not like them. On such days you can’t shoot: a bird, fluttering out from under your feet, immediately disappears in the whitish haze of a motionless fog. But how quiet, how unspeakably quiet all around! Everything is awake and everything is silent. You pass by a tree - it does not move: it basks. Through thin steam, evenly poured in the air, a long strip blackens in front of you. You mistake her for a nearby forest; you approach - the forest turns into a high bed of sagebrush on the boundary. Above you, all around you, fog is everywhere... But then the wind stirs slightly - a patch of pale blue sky vaguely emerges through thinning steam, as if smoking, a golden-yellow ray bursts suddenly, streams in a long stream, strikes the fields, rests against the grove - and here it all went haywire again. This struggle has been going on for a long time; but how unspeakably magnificent and clear the day becomes when the light finally triumphs and the last waves of warmed fog either roll down and spread out like tablecloths, or soar and disappear in the deep, gently shining heights ...

But now you have gathered in the outgoing field, in the steppe. About ten versts you made your way along country roads - here, finally, is a big one. Past endless carts, past inns with a hissing samovar under a canopy, wide open gates and a well, from one village to another, through boundless fields, along green hemp fields, you drive for a long, long time. Magpies fly from rakita to rakita; women, with a long rake in their hands, wander into the field; a passer-by in a worn nanke coat, with a knapsack over his shoulders, trudges along with a tired step; a heavy landowner's carriage, harnessed by six tall and broken horses, is sailing towards you. A corner of a pillow sticks out of the window, and on the heels, on a bag, holding on to a string, a footman in an overcoat sits sideways, spattered to the very eyebrows. Here is a county town with crooked wooden houses, endless fences, merchants' uninhabited stone buildings, an old bridge over a deep ravine ... Further, further! .. Let's go to the steppe places. You look from the mountain - what a view! Round, low hills, plowed up and sown to the top, scatter in broad waves; ravines overgrown with bushes wind between them; small groves are scattered in oblong islands; narrow paths run from village to village; the churches are whitening; a river sparkles between the vineyards, intercepted by dams in four places; far away in the field, drachvas stick out in single file; an old manor house with its services, an orchard and a threshing floor nestled next to a small pond. But further, further you go. The hills are getting smaller and smaller, the tree is almost invisible. Here it is at last - the boundless, boundless steppe!

And on a winter day, walking through high snowdrifts for hares, breathing in frosty, sharp air, involuntarily squinting at the dazzling fine sparkle of soft snow, admiring the green color of the sky over a reddish forest! .. And the first spring days, when everything around shines and collapses, through The steam of melted snow already smells of warm earth, on the thawed patches, under the slanting ray of the sun, larks sing trustingly, and, with a cheerful noise and roar, streams swirl from ravine to ravine ...

However, it's time to end. By the way, I started talking about spring: in spring it is easy to part, in spring the happy ones are drawn into the distance ... Farewell, reader; I wish you continued well-being.

The work refers to the lyrical work of the writer, considered as the main theme of the beauty and charm of the Russian natural landscape. According to the genre orientation, some literary critics classify the story as an essay.

The narration in the work is carried out by the narrator, represented by the writer in the image of the hunter Pyotr Petrovich Karataev, who does not use direct speech in the story, but describes his own feelings in the form of a monologue of an experienced professional.

The compositional structure of the story consists of several poetic natural sketches depicting various manifestations in nature in the form of a summer morning dawn, the attractiveness of an autumn fog, and the magnificence of a forest forest.

Among the means of artistic expression in the story there are numerous epithets, metaphors that convey the charm and depth of natural beauty, as well as comparisons. In addition, the writer uses a special color scheme, expressed in the use of various relative adjectives, including occasional, adverbs, verbs, as well as antonyms that convey the entire available color palette, displayed in verbal form.

The color vocabulary used in the story is manifested in the sensual depiction of natural pictures presented in a cheerful, cheerful state of nature, mainly at the moment of its awakening or during its heyday.

To depict the amazing beauty of the nature seen, the writer uses various artistic methods not only in the form of color shades, but also in the form of light, smell, sound, movement, and tactile sensations.

The definitions used by the author give the impression of the reality of what is happening. For example, to describe the sky, the writer uses the verbal form in the form of pale blue, vaguely clear, fading, allowing him to discover new facets of change in nature.

Emotional coloring in the story allows you to more vividly display the spontaneous natural state that does not cause a feeling of sadness, melancholy, using sound coloring in the form of a faint noise of foliage, the creak of a cart, a golden bird's voice, the silence of the morning fog, the silver of river water.

Narrative content creates a holistic and deep composition with the help of numerous descriptions of natural landscapes and correctly selected lexical composition of the story, saturating the literary text with expressive nuances.

The semantic load of the story "The Forest and the Steppe" demonstrates to the readership the multifaceted authorial talent and skill, manifested in displaying the writer's deep and sincere contact with the surrounding Russian nature, presenting the author as a true natural singer, fanatical of the beauty and magnificence that appears before him.

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