Print stories about nature. Mikhail Prishvin. Stories for children about nature. G. Skrebitsky "In the forest clearing"
Has anyone seen a white rainbow? It happens in the swamps at the very good days. For this, it is necessary that mists rise in the morning hour, and the sun, showing itself, pierces them with rays. Then all the mists gather into one very dense arc, very white, sometimes with a pink tinge, sometimes creamy. I love white rainbow.
Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since autumn, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran a dozen meters, dived again, again left the shell on the snow and after a few meters she made the third climb.
What a miracle You can't think that she could smell a nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. So, since the fall, she remembered her nuts and the exact distance between them.
I heard in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, from one citizen about a bear and, I confess, I did not believe it. But he assured me that in the old days, even in a Siberian magazine, this incident was published under the title: "A Man with a Bear Against Wolves."
There lived one watchman on the shore of Lake Baikal, he caught fish, shot squirrels. And once, as if he sees this watchman through the window, he runs straight to the hut A big bear followed by a pack of wolves. That would be the end of the bear. He, this bear, don’t be bad, in the hallway, the door behind him closed itself, and he also leaned on her paw himself.
Direct wet snow pressed down on the branches all night in the forest, broke off, fell, rustled.
A rustle drove the white hare out of the forest, and he probably realized that by morning the black field would turn white and that he, completely white, could lie quietly. And he lay down in the field not far from the forest, and not far from it, also like a hare, lay weathered over the summer and whitewashed. sunbeams horse skull.
I found amazing birch bark tube. When a person cuts a piece of birch bark for himself on a birch, the rest of the birch bark near the cut begins to curl up into a tube. The tube will dry out, curl up tightly. There are so many of them on birch trees that you don’t even pay attention.
But today I wanted to see if there was anything in such a tube.
And in the very first tube I found a good nut, stuck so tightly that I could hardly push it out with a stick. There was no hazel around the birch. How did he get there?
“Probably, the squirrel hid it there, making its winter supplies,” I thought. “She knew that the pipe would curl up tighter and tighter and grab the nut tighter so it wouldn’t fall out.”
I know that few people sat in the swamps in early spring, waiting for the grouse current, and I have few words to even hint at all the splendor of the bird concert in the swamps before sunrise. Often I noticed that the first note in this concerto, far from the very first hint of light, is taken by the curlew. This is a very thin trill, completely different from the well-known whistle. Later, when the white partridges cry, the black grouse and the current grouse chirp, sometimes near the hut itself, it starts its mumbling, then it’s not up to the curlew, but then at sunrise at the most solemn moment you will certainly pay attention to the new curlew song, very cheerful and similar to dancing: this dancing is as necessary for meeting the sun as the cry of a crane.
When the snow ran down into the river in the spring (we live on the Moskva River), white chickens came out on the dark hot earth everywhere in the village.
Get up, Julie! I ordered.
And she came up to me, my beloved young dog, a white setter with frequent black spots.
I fastened a long leash to the collar with a carbine, wound on a reel, and began to teach Zhulka how to hunt (train) first on chickens. This teaching consists in the dog standing and looking at the chickens, but not trying to grab the chicken.
So we use this dog's pull so that it indicates the place where the game is hidden, and does not stick forward behind it, but stands.
A golden network of sunbeams trembles on the water. Dark blue dragonflies in reeds and horsetail herringbones. And each dragonfly has its own horsetail tree or reed: it will fly off and will certainly return to it.
Crazy crows brought out the chicks and now they are sitting and resting.
At night, with electricity, snowflakes were born from nothing: the sky was starry, clear.
The powder formed on the pavement not just like snow, but an asterisk over an asterisk, without flattening one another. It seemed that this rare powder was taken directly from nothing, and yet, as I approached my dwelling in Lavrushinsky Lane, the asphalt from it was gray.
Joyful was my awakening on the sixth floor. Moscow lay covered with stellar powder, and like tigers on the ridges of mountains, cats walked everywhere on the roofs. How many clear traces, how many spring romances: in the spring of light, all the cats climb onto the roofs.
Works are divided into pagesStories of Prishvin Mikhail Mikhailovich
Many parents are quite serious about the choice of children's works. Books for children must awaken good feelings in the gentle children's heads. Therefore, many people opt for short stories about nature, its splendor and beauty.
Whomever M. M. Prishvina love read our children, who else could create such wonderful works. Among the huge number of writers, he, although not so many, but what stories he came up with for little kids. He was a man of extraordinary imagination, his children's stories are truly a storehouse of kindness and love. M. Prishvin like his fairy tales already long time remains an unattainable author for many contemporary writers, since in children's stories he has practically no equal.
A naturalist, a connoisseur of the forest, a wonderful observer of the life of nature is a Russian writer Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin(1873 - 1954). His novels and stories, even the smallest ones, are simple and immediately understandable. The skill of the author, his ability to convey all the immensity surrounding nature truly admire! Thanks to stories about the nature of Prishvin children are imbued with sincere interest in it, cultivating respect for it and its inhabitants.
Small but filled with extraordinary colors stories by Mikhail Prishvin wonderfully convey to us what we so rarely encounter in our time. The beauty of nature, the deaf forgotten places - all this today is so far from dusty megacities. It is quite possible that many of us are happy to go hiking in the forest right now, but not everyone will succeed. In this case, we will open the book of Prishvin's favorite stories and move on to beautiful, distant and dear places.
Stories by M. Prishvin designed to be read by both children and adults. A huge number of fairy tales, novels and stories can be safely read even to preschoolers. Other read Prishvin's stories possible, starting from the school bench. And even for the most grown-ups Mikhail Prishvin left his legacy: his memoirs are distinguished by a very scrupulous narrative and description of the surrounding atmosphere in the unusually difficult twenties and thirties. They will be of interest to teachers, lovers of memories, historians and even hunters. On our website you can see online a list of Prishvin's stories, and enjoy reading them absolutely free.
This stories about late autumn about the onset of winter. Stories about the last autumn days and the first winter days. Stories about the first snow, about the winter forest.
Air track. Author: N. I. Sladkov
The river froze over at night. And as if nothing had changed: as it was quiet and black, it remained quiet and black. Even the domestic ducks were deceived: with a quack they fled down the hill, immediately rushed and rolled on the ice on their stomachs!
I walked along the shore and looked at the black ice. And in one place I noticed an incomprehensible white stripe- from the coast to the middle. how Milky Way in the night sky - from white dots-bubbles. When I pressed on the ice, the bubbles crawled under it, stirred, began to overflow. But why did the air bubbles run in such a narrow and long path?
The answer didn't come right away. Only on the third day, and in a completely different place, did I see an animal swimming under the ice: air bubbles marked its path! The air path was immediately explained. There was a muskrat hole under the shore; while diving, the muskrat “breathed” its amazing trail from the air!
It's time to sleep.
Grunting angrily, a fat badger hobbled into his hole. He is dissatisfied: damp in the forest, dirty. It's time to go deeper underground - to a dry, clean sandy lair. Time to fall asleep.
Little disheveled forest crows - kukshas - fought in the thicket. Wet colors flicker coffee grounds. Shouting with sharp crow voices.
An old raven croaked muffledly from the top: he saw carrion in the distance. It flew, shining with the varnish of blue-black wings.
Quiet in the forest. Gray snow falls heavily on the blackened trees, on the brown earth. A leaf rots on the ground.
The snow is thicker, thicker. It went in big flakes, covered the black branches of trees, covered the ground ...
Whisper of snow. Author: I. D. Poluyanov
Snow is falling on the brown thickets of meadowsweet and green juniper with a bluish blue. Snow rustles, rustles, as if whispering, colliding in slow flight with tree branches. A rustle in the forest. The rustle of snowflakes. It merges into an incessant whisper, quiet and a little sad.
Each tree has its own way of meeting snow. Having smelled the needles like fur coats, the spruces stretch out towards the snowflakes the very tips of their heavy furry paws. Well, hello, hello ... Fly past! They make it clear: we are fine without you, snow, in winter!
Absent-mindedly, in detached thoughtfulness, the pines take on the snow, and it accumulates between the smoky needles. The mountain ash, from which the thrushes did not peck all the berries in autumn, shows a crimson frozen bunch: please, fall asleep, there is a snowball, one is left ... The birches lowered their flexible branches. Dry sharp snow flies, barely touching them, and accumulates in the forks of branches. Snow falls and falls. And the birches do not move, the branches have dropped. They let us down, prompting: here ... here more rashes, cover our legs. Chill, cover them warmer!
And the young Christmas tree exposes all its paws to the snow. Like snow again. Surrenders, she looks at his spiky crystals. Snow whispers, and she whispers: good-sh-sho ... good!
Snowfall in the forest. Whispers in the forest. What do white snowflakes want to tell the world?
Les is listening. The fields are frozen and listening. In a lonely hut on a hillock, windows flashed - as if eyes were opened on a forest, on a field with hedges, stacks of straw. The hut is listening, her eyes are wide open; she will understand, old, with a rickety porch, what the snows whisper about!
Whisper, whisper... Snowflakes fall gently, gently on the fields and trees, on the blades of grass and on the roof of the hut. They go down and whisper. And I think I understand this whisper: if you touch the trees, grasses and the white roof of the hut, then you need to touch it as carefully as snowflakes in a soft winter snowfall.
G. Skrebitsky "Winter is Coming"
I love to wander through the forest late autumn before the arrival of winter. Everything in him somehow fell silent, as if waiting for something. The bushes and trees have long shed their leaves and stand completely bare, darkened by the autumn rains. Fallen leaves do not rustle underfoot, as in the very beginning of autumn. Now it is firmly nailed to the ground, lying in a brown rotten mass. Throughout the forest, it smells so nice of rustic cold kvass.
And what silence in the forest! Only somewhere in the tops of pines and firs titmouse and kinglets squeak. They flit from twig to twig, swarm among the branches, looking for bugs there.
From time to time, a hazel grouse whistles thinly, lingeringly in the spruce forest, and again everything is silent.
You walk on the damp ground completely silently, you walk and look around, you want to remember the forest just like that - gloomy, frowning. After all, very soon, maybe in a day or two, he will become completely different: he will brighten all over, dress in a white snow cap, immediately transform, like in a fairy tale. And do not recognize the very bushes and trees that I am now looking at.
Issues for discussion
What kind of autumn is mentioned in the story of G. Skrebitsky “Winter is coming” - about early or late? What signs of late autumn did you learn from this story? Why does the author call the forest in late autumn gloomy, frowning? What do trees and grass look like in such a forest? What sounds can be heard at this time? Why do you think everything is silent in the forest? Where did the forest dwellers go? And how will the forest change from the first snow, what will it become?
Listen to the story of G. Skrebitsky again. Try to talk about the autumn forest so that it is clear that you are admiring it. I will start the sentence and you will finish it:
1. I like to wander...
2. Everything in him fell silent, as if ...
3. Bushes and trees... foliage...
4. She smells nice...
5. Silence in the forest, only ...
6. Do you want to remember the forest ...
7. After all, very soon he will become ...
8. And do not know ...
Now try to tell yourself about the autumn forest.
Winter
Winter. The forest clearing is covered with white fluffy snow. Now it is quiet and empty, not like in summer. It seems that no one lives in the clearing in winter. But that's just how it seems.
Near the bush, an old, rotten stump sticks out from under the snow. This is not just a stump, but a real tower-teremok. It has a lot of cozy winter apartments for different forest dwellers.
Small insects hid under the bark from the cold, and a tired lumberjack beetle immediately settled down to spend the winter. And in the hole between the roots, curled up in a tight ringlet, an agile lizard lay down. Everyone climbed into the old stump, each took a tiny bedroom in it, and fell asleep in it for the whole long winter.
At the very edge of the clearing, in a ditch, under the fallen leaves, under the snow, as if under a thick blanket, the frogs are sleeping. They sleep and do not know that right there, not far away, under a pile of brushwood, curled up in a ball, fell asleep their worst enemy - a hedgehog.
Quiet and empty in winter in a forest clearing. Only occasionally will a flock of goldfinches or tits fly over it, or a woodpecker, sitting on a tree, will begin to beat delicious seeds out of a cone with its beak.
And sometimes white will jump out into the clearing fluffy hare. It jumps out, becomes a column, listens to see if everything is calm around, looks, and runs further into the forest.
Issues for discussion
Do you know how forest dwellers spend their winter? Listen to how G. Skrebitsky tells us about this. What are you listening to now - a story, a fairy tale or a poem? Why do you think so? Does this work talk about any miracles? Is it possible to say that this work is melodic, melodious, that there is a rhyme in it? What unfamiliar words and expressions did you come across in the story? (“Rotten stump”, “pile of brushwood”, “knock out with a beak”). What new did you learn from this story? Why do you think the author calls the common stump a terem-teremk for various forest dwellers? Tell me what kind of “cozy winter apartments” they found for themselves in a rotten stump. What new things did you learn from this story?
I. Bunin "Frost"
Morning. I look out of a piece of the window, not sketched with frost, and do not recognize the forest. What splendor and tranquility!
Above the deep, fresh and fluffy snows that have filled up the thickets of fir trees, there is a blue, huge and surprisingly tender sky ... The sun is still behind the forest, a clearing in the blue shade. In the ruts of the toboggan track, cut in a bold and clear semicircle from the road to the house, the shadow is completely blue. And on the tops of the pines, on their lush green crowns, golden sunlight is already playing ...
Two jackdaws loudly and joyfully said something to each other. One of them landed on the topmost branch of a densely green, slender spruce, swayed, almost losing its balance, and rained down thickly and slowly began to fall rainbow snow dust. The jackdaw laughed with pleasure, but immediately fell silent ... The sun rises, and it becomes quieter in the clearing ...
M. Prishvin "Golden Meadow"
My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. We used to go somewhere to our trade - he was in front, I was in the heel.
"Seryozha!" - I will call him in a businesslike manner. He'll look back, and I'll blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, as you gape, he also fuknet. And so we plucked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.
We lived in the village, in front of the window we had a meadow, all golden from many blooming dandelions. This was very beautiful. Everyone said: “Very beautiful! The meadow is golden. One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if our fingers were yellow from the side of the palm of our hand and, clenched into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw how dandelions open their palms, and from this the meadow becomes golden again.
Since then, dandelion has become for us one of the most interesting colors because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.
M. Prishvin "The conversation of trees"
The buds open, chocolate-colored, with green tails, and a large transparent drop hangs on each green beak.
You take one kidney, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.
You sniff a bird cherry bud and immediately remember how you used to climb up a tree for berries, shiny, black-lacquered. I ate them in handfuls right with the bones, but nothing but good came from this.
The evening is warm, and such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And now the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a white birch with another white birch calls from a distance, a young aspen has entered the clearing, like a green candle, and is calling the same green aspen candle, waving a twig; Bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds.
If you compare with us, we echo with sounds, and they have a fragrance.
Issues for discussion
What plant is mentioned in M. Prishvin's story "Golden Meadow"? What do you know about dandelion? Why did the guys at first consider the dandelion an uninteresting flower? How did they feel about this plant? How do you understand the expression "golden meadow"? How did you imagine him? What discovery did the author of the story once make? What beautiful image did he come up with to tell us about the green and golden meadow? Why is the dandelion the most interesting flower for children now?
Was it interesting for you to listen to the story of M. Prishvin "The conversation of trees"? What surprised you the most about this piece? What new did you learn from the story? How can trees talk to each other? Why do you think the author calls chocolate buds on trees? Are they made from chocolate? Tell me how you imagined opening buds. What does the author compare the young aspen with? How does the aspen look like a thin green candle? What sounds do you think can be heard in this story? (Rustle of trees.) And what smells can you catch? (Aroma from resin different trees.) Do you think the trees in the story look like people? How did the author achieve this similarity?
L. N. Tolstoy "The Lion and the Dog"
In London, they showed wild animals and took money or dogs and cats for food for wild animals.
One man wanted to look at the animals; he grabbed a dog in the street and brought it to the menagerie. They let him watch, but they took the little dog and threw it into a cage to be eaten by a lion.
The dog tucked its tail between its legs and snuggled into the corner of the cage. The lion walked up to her and sniffed her.
The dog lay on its back, raised its paws and began to wag its tail.
The lion touched her with his paw and turned her over.
The dog jumped up and stood in front of the lion on its hind legs.
The lion looked at the dog, turned its head from side to side and did not touch it.
When the owner threw meat to the lion, the lion tore off a piece and left it for the dog.
In the evening, when the lion went to bed, the dog lay down beside him and laid her head on his paw.
Since then, the dog has lived in the same cage with the lion. The lion did not touch her, ate food, slept with her, and sometimes played with her.
Once the master came to the menagerie and recognized his little dog; he said that the dog was his own, and asked the owner of the menagerie to give it to him. The owner wanted to give it back, but as soon as they began to call the dog to take it out of the cage, the lion bristled and growled.
So the lion and the dog lived for a whole year in one cage.
A year later, the dog fell ill and died. The lion stopped eating, but kept sniffing, licking the dog and touching it with his paw.
When he realized that she was dead, he suddenly jumped up, bristled, began to whip his tail on the sides, threw himself on the wall of the cage and began to gnaw the bolts and the floor.
All day long he fought, rushed around the cage and roared, then lay down beside the dead dog and calmed down. The owner wanted to carry away the dead dog, but the lion would not let anyone near it.
The owner thought that the lion would forget his grief if he was given another dog, and let a live dog into his cage; but the lion immediately tore her to pieces. Then he hugged the dead dog with his paws and lay like that for five days.
On the sixth day the lion died.
S. T. Aksakov "Marmot"
Once, sitting at the window (from that moment on I remember everything clearly), I heard some kind of plaintive screeching in the garden; mother also heard him, and when I began to ask them to send to see who was crying, that “it’s true, it hurts someone,” mother sent the girl, and in a few minutes she brought in her handfuls a tiny, still blind puppy, who, trembling and resting unsteadily on his crooked paws, poking his head in all directions, squealing plaintively, or bored, as my nanny put it. I felt so sorry for him that I took this puppy and wrapped him in my dress.
The mother ordered to bring warm milk in a saucer, and after many attempts, pushing the blind kitten into the milk with her stigma, she taught him to lap.
Since then, the puppy has not parted with me for whole hours, feeding him several times a day has become my favorite pastime; they called him Marmot; he later became a little mongrel and lived with us for seventeen years - of course, no longer in the room, but in the yard, always retaining an unusual attachment to me and to my mother.
Issues for discussion
The story of L. N. Tolstoy “The Lion and the Dog” can be read to the words: “... the dog was taken and thrown into a cage to be eaten by a lion. The dog tucked its tail and snuggled into the corner of the cage ... "
Then interrupt the reading and offer to answer the question: “What do you think will happen to the dog? After listening to several answers, you need to continue reading to the end in order to check the assumptions made. After that, you can offer the child questions to work on the text.
Did you like the story of Leo Tolstoy "The Lion and the Dog"? What surprised you in this story told by Leo Tolstoy? How did you imagine the lion and the dog when you listened to the story? Which of them did you like more? Why? Remember how the dog behaved when a huge formidable lion approached her. Was she scared of the lion? Why do you think the lion didn't touch the dog? Tell me how a lion and a dog lived in the same cage. How did the lion treat the dog? Why did he growl when the menagerie owner tried to take the dog? What happened when the dog died? How do you think the lion felt at that moment? Remember what words in the story help the author convey the state of the lion after his death little friend, ("... he suddenly jumped up, bristled, began to whip his tail on the sides, threw himself on the wall of the cage and began to gnaw on the bolts and the floor ...") How did the story end? What did the author help you understand?
G. Snegiryov "Swallow"
As soon as the swallows fly home from the sea, they immediately begin to build nests.
Swallows build their nest from river clay and just from mud. From dawn to evening, swallows fly with a twitter, carry clay in their beaks and mold, mold - build a nest. Now the clay ball under the roof of the barn is ready - the swallow's nest. From the inside, it is lined by a swallow with soft blades of grass, horsehair, and feathers.
As the chicks hatch, from morning to evening the swallow flies over the river and over the field, catches insects, feeds the chicks.
Young swallows will grow up and leave the nest, soon it is time to gather on a long journey, beyond the seas, to warm countries.
I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov "Nest"
The thrush placed the first bunch of dry grass in a birch fork. He put it down, straightened it with his beak and thought.
Here it is - a solemn moment, when everything is behind and everything is ahead. Behind wintering in strangers southern forests, hard long flight. Ahead is a nest, chicks, labors and anxieties.
A fork of a birch and a bunch of grass as the beginning of a new life.
Whatever the day, the nest is higher and wider. Once a blackbird sat in it and remained seated. She was completely drowned in the nest, her nose and tail were sticking out.
But the blackbird saw and heard everything.
dragged along blue sky clouds, and their shadows crawled across the green earth. An elk walked on stilts. The hare hobbled clumsily. Willow warbler, fluffy like a willow lamb, sings and sings about spring.
The birch cradles the bird's house. And guarding him - the tail and nose. They stick out like two sentries. Once they stick out, then everything is fine. So it's quiet in the forest. So, everything is ahead!
Issues for discussion
What do most birds usually build their nests with? How did you understand the expression from the story “The Nest” by I. S. Sokolov-Mikitov: “A birch fork and a bunch of grass as the beginning of a new life”? Do you know why a bird must always stay in the nest until the chicks hatch? With what did the author compare the tail and nose of a blackbird sitting in a nest? Do you think this is the correct comparison?
When you listened to the story of G. Snegiryov, you probably imagined how it all happened. Tell me how the swallow builds its nest. Where is the nest located? What material are swallows made of? What shape is it, what is it lined with from the inside? What is unusual about the nest that swallows build?
G. Snegirev "Beetle"
I have a sister, Galya, she is a year younger than me, and such a crybaby, I must definitely yield everything to her. Mom will give something tasty, Galya will eat hers and ask me for more. If you don't, he starts crying. She only thought of herself, but I weaned her from this.
I once went for water. Mom is at work, I had to bring water myself. Scooped up half a bucket. It was slippery around the well, the whole earth was icy, I could hardly drag the bucket to the house. I put it on a bench, I look, and a swimming beetle swims in it, a big one, with furry legs. I took the bucket out into the yard, poured water into a snowdrift, and caught the beetle and put it in a jar of water. The beetle in the jar is spinning, can't get used to it.
I went again to fetch water, brought clean water Nothing happened this time. I undressed and wanted to see the beetle, but there was no jar on the window.
I ask Gali:
- Galya, did you take the beetle?
“Yes,” he says, “I, let him live in my room.”
- Why, - I say, - in yours, let the beetle be common!
I take a jar from her room and put it on the window: I also want to look at the beetle.
Galya cried and said:
“I’ll tell my mother everything about how you took the beetle from me!”
I ran to the window, grabbed a jar, water even on the floor
spilled it and put it back in her room.
I got angry.
- No, - I say, - my beetle, I caught it! I took it and put it back on the window. Galya began to roar as she began to dress.
“I,” he says, “I will go to the steppe and freeze there because of you.”
“Well,” I think, “let it go!” It is always like this: if you don’t give something, then it immediately starts to scare that it will freeze in the steppe.
She slammed the door and left. I watch from the window what she will do, and she goes straight to the steppe, only quietly, quietly, waiting for me to run after her. “No,” I think, “you won’t wait, that’s enough, I ran after you!”
She walks, the snow is knee-deep, and holds her face with her hands: she roars, that means. Farther and farther from the house goes into the steppe. “And what, I think, will really freeze?” I felt sorry for her. “Maybe go after her, return? And I don’t need a beetle, let him take it for good. Only again it will always make a roar. No, I’d rather wait, come what may!”
Galya has gone far, only a small dot is visible. I wanted to get dressed, to follow her - I see, the point is getting bigger: back, that means she’s coming. She came up to the house, holding her hands in her pockets, looking down at her feet. She is afraid to raise her eyes: she knows that I am looking at her from the window.
She came home, undressed silently and went to her room. She sat there for a long time, and then went to the window and said:
- What a good beetle, you need to feed him!
We began to take care of the beetle together.
When my mother came home from work, Galya did not tell her anything, and neither did I.
N. Sladkov "Home Butterfly"
At night, the box suddenly rustled. And something mustachioed and furry crawled out of their boxes. And on the back is a folded fan of yellow paper.
But how I rejoiced at this freak!
I put him on a lampshade, and he hung motionlessly down on his back. The fan folded like an accordion began to sag and straighten.
Before my eyes, an ugly furry worm turned into a beautiful butterfly. Probably, this is how the frog turned into a princess!
All winter the pupae lay dead and motionless, like pebbles. They patiently waited for spring, as its seeds wait in the ground. But the room heat deceived: "the seeds sprouted" ahead of time. And then a butterfly crawls through the window. And outside the window is winter. And on the window are ice flowers. living butterfly crawling over dead flowers.
She flits around the room. Sits on a print with poppies. Expanding the spiral of a thin proboscis, he drinks sweet water from a spoon. Again sits on the lampshade, substituting the wings of the hot "sun".
I look at her and think: why not keep butterflies at home, as we keep songbirds? They will delight in color. And if these are not harmful butterflies, in the spring they, like birds, can be released into the field.
There are, after all, singing insects: crickets and cicadas. Cicadas sing in a matchbox and even in a loosely clenched fist. And the desert crickets sing just like birds.
We would have beautiful beetles at home: bronze beetles, ground beetles, deer and rhinos. And how many wild plants can be tamed!
A wolf's bast, a bear's ear, a raven's eye! And why not plant beautiful fly agarics, huge umbrella mushrooms or bunches of honey mushrooms in pots?
It will be winter outside, and summer will be on your windowsill. The ferns will stick their green fists out of the ground. Lilies of the valley will hang wax bells. A miracle flower of a white water lily will open. And the first butterfly flutters. And the first cricket will sing.
And what can you think of, looking at a butterfly drinking tea with jam from a spoon!
Issues for discussion
Where do butterflies go in winter? Listen to the story about one winter butterfly, which was told to us by N. Sladkov ("Domestic Butterfly"). Why did this butterfly wake up early? What did she look like when she crawled out of the box she was in? Why was the author so happy about this "freak"? Tell me what the butterfly was doing in the apartment. What mood do the lines of the story evoke in you: “A living butterfly crawls over dead flowers” - joy, surprise, sadness, regret? Why? What illustration would you draw for this piece?
G. Skrebitsky "In the forest clearing"
Warm spring sun. The winter quarters in the old stump were empty. A long-tailed newt crawled out of the dust. I woke up, got out of the mink on a stump, basked in the sun.
Warm, bright sunlight is necessary for the lizard in order to become mobile. The lizard will warm up and start hunting. She is very voracious and destroys many slugs, as well as flies and various small insects that are harmful to plants.
Lizards are useful animals. Take care of them!
We have a live-bearing lizard with a lemon-yellow belly. She does not lay eggs in the ground, but gives birth to live cubs. The second, agile lizard, with beautiful pattern on the body, with a green spring color, lays eggs in loose earth, often in earthen heaps of black ants.
The tree with its upper whorl, like a palm, took away the falling snow, and such a lump grew from this that the top of the birch began to bend. And it happened that during the thaw snow fell again and stuck to that coma, and the upper branch with a lump arched the whole tree, until, finally, the top with that huge lump sank into the snow on the ground and was thus fixed until spring itself. Animals and people occasionally skied under this arch all winter. Nearby, proud firs looked down on the bent birch, as people born to command look at their subordinates.
In the spring, the birch returned to those firs, and if this one especially snowy winter she would not bend, then in winter and summer she would remain among the fir trees, but since she was already bent, now with the smallest snow she leaned over and in the end, without fail every year, leaned over the path like an arch.
It is terrible to enter a young forest in a snowy winter: but it is impossible to enter. Where in the summer I walked along a wide path, now bent trees lie across this path, and so low that only a hare can run under them ...
Chanterelle bread
Once I walked in the forest all day and returned home in the evening with rich booty. He took off his heavy bag from his shoulders and began to spread his belongings on the table.
What is this bird? - asked Zinochka.
Terenty, I replied.
And he told her about the black grouse: how he lives in the forest, how he mumbles in the spring, how he pecks at birch buds, picks berries in the swamps in autumn, warms himself from the wind under the snow in winter. He also told her about the hazel grouse, showed her that he was grey, with a tuft, and whistled into a pipe in a hazel grouse and let her whistle. I also poured a lot of porcini mushrooms, both red and black, on the table. I also had a bloody boneberry in my pocket, and blueberries, and red lingonberries. I also brought with me a fragrant lump of pine resin, gave the girl a sniff and said that trees are treated with this resin.
Who is treating them? - asked Zinochka.
Healing himself, I replied. - It happens that a hunter will come, he wants to rest, he will stick an ax into a tree and hang a bag on an ax, and he will lie down under a tree. Sleep, rest. He will take out an ax from a tree, put on a bag, and leave. And from the wound from the ax made of wood, this fragrant tar will run and this wound will be tightened.
Also on purpose for Zinochka, I brought various wonderful herbs by leaf, by root, by flower: cuckoo's tears, valerian, Peter's cross, hare cabbage. And just under the hare cabbage I had a piece of black bread: it always happens to me that when I don’t take bread to the forest, I’m hungry, but I take it, I forget to eat it and bring it back. And Zinochka, when she saw black bread under my hare cabbage, was stunned:
Where did the bread come from in the forest?
What is surprising here? After all, there is cabbage there!
Hare...
And the bread is chanterelle. Taste. Carefully tasted and began to eat:
Good fox bread!
And ate all my black bread clean. And so it went with us: Zinochka, such a copula, often doesn’t even take white bread, but when I bring fox bread from the forest, she always eats it all and praises:
Chanterelle's bread is much better than ours!
blue shadows
Silence resumed, frosty and bright. Yesterday's powder lies on the crust, like powder with sparkling sparkles. Nast does not fall anywhere and on the field, in the sun, it holds even better than in the shade. Each bush of the old wormwood, burdock, blade of grass, blade of grass, as in a mirror, looks into this sparkling powder and sees itself as blue and beautiful.
quiet snow
They say about silence: "Quieter than water, lower than grass..." But what could be quieter than falling snow! It snowed all day yesterday, and as if it had brought silence from heaven ... And every sound only intensified it: the rooster bellowed, the crow called, the woodpecker drummed, the jay sang with all voices, but the silence from all this grew. What silence, what grace.
clear ice
It's good to look at that clear ice where the frost did not make flowers and did not cover the water with them. Seen like a stream underneath that the thinnest ice drives a huge herd of bubbles, and drives them out from under the ice into open water, and rushes them with great speed, as if he really needs them somewhere and needs to have time to drive them all to one place.
Zhurka
Once we had it, we caught a young crane and gave it a frog. He swallowed it. Gave another - swallowed. The third, fourth, fifth, and then we didn’t have more frogs at hand.
Good girl! - said my wife and asked me; How much can he eat? Ten maybe?
Ten, I say, maybe.
What if twenty?
Twenty, I say, hardly...
We clipped the wings of this crane, and he began to follow his wife everywhere. She is milking a cow - and Zhurka is with her, she is in the garden - and Zhurka needs to go there ... His wife has got used to him ... and without him she is already bored, without him nowhere. But only if it happens - he is not there, only one thing will shout: “Fru-fru!”, And he runs to her. Such a smart one!
This is how the crane lives with us, and its clipped wings keep growing and growing.
Once the wife went down to the swamp for water, and Zhurka followed her. A small frog sat by the well and jumped from Zhurka into the swamp. Zhurka is behind him, and the water is deep, and you can’t reach the frog from the shore. Mach-mach wings Zhurka and suddenly flew. The wife gasped - and after him. Swing your arms, but you can't get up. And in tears, and to us: “Ah, ah, what a grief! Ahah!" We all ran to the well. We see - Zhurka is far away, sitting in the middle of our swamp.
Fru fru! I scream.
And all the guys behind me are also screaming:
Fru fru!
And so smart! As soon as he heard this our “frou-frou”, now he flapped his wings and flew in. Here the wife does not remember herself for joy, she tells the guys to run after the frogs as soon as possible. This year there were a lot of frogs, the guys soon scored two caps. The guys brought frogs, began to give and count. They gave five - he swallowed, they gave ten - he swallowed, twenty and thirty, - and so he swallowed forty-three frogs at a time.
squirrel memory
Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: a squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there since autumn, ate them right away - I found the shells. Then she ran a dozen meters, dived again, again left the shell on the snow and after a few meters she made the third climb.
What a miracle You can't think that she could smell a nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. So, since the fall, she remembered her nuts and the exact distance between them.
But the most surprising thing is that she could not measure centimeters, as we do, but right on the eye with accuracy determined, dived and pulled out. Well, how could you not envy squirrel memory and ingenuity!
forest doctor
We wandered in the spring in the forest and observed the life of hollow birds: woodpeckers, owls. Suddenly in the direction where we had previously planned interesting tree we heard the sound of a saw. It was, we were told, cutting firewood from deadwood for a glass factory. We were afraid for our tree, hurried to the sound of the saw, but it was too late: our aspen lay, and around its stump there were many empty fir cones. The woodpecker peeled all this over the long winter, collected it, wore it on this aspen, laid it between two bitches of his workshop and hollowed it out. Near the stump, on our cut aspen, two boys were only engaged in sawing the forest.
Oh you pranksters! - we said and pointed them to the cut aspen. - You are ordered dead trees, and what did you do?
The woodpecker made holes, - the guys answered. - We looked and, of course, sawed off. It will still disappear.
They all began to examine the tree together. It was quite fresh, and only in a small space, no more than a meter in length, did a worm pass through the trunk. The woodpecker, obviously, listened to the aspen like a doctor: he tapped it with his beak, understood the void left by the worm, and proceeded to the operation of extracting the worm. And the second time, and the third, and the fourth... The thin aspen trunk looked like a flute with valves. Seven holes were made by the "surgeon" and only on the eighth he captured the worm, pulled out and saved the aspen.
We carved this piece as a wonderful exhibit for the museum.
You see, - we told the guys, - a woodpecker is a forest doctor, he saved the aspen, and it would live and live, and you cut it off.
The boys marveled.
white necklace
I heard in Siberia, near Lake Baikal, from one citizen about a bear and, I confess, I did not believe it. But he assured me that in the old days, even in a Siberian magazine, this incident was published under the title: "A Man with a Bear Against Wolves."
There lived one watchman on the shore of Lake Baikal, he caught fish, shot squirrels. And once, as if this watchman sees through the window - a big bear runs straight to the hut, and a pack of wolves is chasing him. That would be the end of the bear. He, this bear, don’t be bad, in the hallway, the door behind him closed itself, and he also leaned on her paw himself. The old man, realizing this matter, took the rifle from the wall and said:
- Misha, Misha, hold on!
The wolves climb on the door, and the old man aims the wolf out the window and repeats:
- Misha, Misha, hold on!
So he killed one wolf, and another, and a third, all the while saying:
- Misha, Misha, hold on!
After the third flock fled, and the bear remained in the hut to spend the winter under the protection of the old man. In the spring, when the bears come out of their lairs, the old man seemed to put a white necklace on this bear and ordered all the hunters not to shoot this bear - with a white necklace - this bear is his friend.
Belyak
Direct wet snow pressed down on the branches all night in the forest, broke off, fell, rustled.
A rustle drove the white hare out of the forest, and he probably realized that by morning the black field would turn white and that he, completely white, could lie quietly. And he lay down in a field not far from the forest, and not far from him, also like a hare, lay the skull of a horse, weathered over the summer and whitewashed by the sun's rays.
By dawn the whole field was covered, and both the white hare and the white skull disappeared into the white immensity.
We were a little late, and when the hound was released, the tracks had already begun to blur.
When Osman began to sort out the fat, it was still difficult to distinguish the shape of a hare paw from a hare: he walked along a hare. But before Osman had time to straighten the track, everything completely melted on the white path, and then there was no sight or smell left on the black one.
We gave up on hunting and began to return home at the edge of the forest.
“Look through binoculars,” I said to my friend, “that it is whitening there on a black field and so bright.
“Horse skull, head,” he replied.
I took the binoculars from him and also saw the skull.
“Something is still whitening there,” said the comrade, “look to the left.”
I looked there, and there, too, like a skull, bright white, lay a hare, and through prismatic binoculars one could even see black eyes on the white. He was in a desperate situation: to lie down was to be visible to everyone, to run was to leave a printed mark on the soft wet ground for the dog. We stopped his hesitation: we raised him, and at the same moment, Osman, having seen, with a wild roar, set off on the sighted man.
Swamp
I know that few people sat in the swamps in early spring, waiting for the grouse current, and I have few words to even hint at all the splendor of the bird concert in the swamps before sunrise. Often I noticed that the first note in this concerto, far from the very first hint of light, is taken by the curlew. This is a very thin trill, completely different from the well-known whistle. Later, when the white partridges cry, the black grouse and the current grouse chirp, sometimes near the hut itself, it starts its mumbling, then it’s not up to the curlew, but then at sunrise at the most solemn moment you will certainly pay attention to the new curlew song, very cheerful and similar to dancing: this dancing is as necessary for meeting the sun as the cry of a crane.
Once I saw from a hut how, among the black mass of rooster, a gray curlew, a female, settled down on a tussock; a male flew up to her and, supporting himself in the air with the flapping of his large wings, touched the back of the female with his feet and sang his dance song. Here, of course, the whole air trembled from the singing of all the swamp birds, and, I remember, the puddle, in complete calm, was all agitated by the multitude of insects that had awakened in it.
The sight of the curlew's very long and crooked beak always transports my imagination to a bygone time, when there was no man on earth yet. Yes, and everything in the swamps is so strange, the swamps are little studied, not at all touched by artists, in them you always feel as if a person on earth has not yet begun.
One evening I went out into the swamps to wash the dogs. Very steamy after the rain before the new rain. The dogs, with their tongues out, ran and from time to time lay down, like pigs, on their belly in the swamp puddles. It can be seen that the youth has not yet hatched and has not got out of the supports on open space, and in our places, overflowing with marsh game, now the dogs could not get used to anything and, in idleness, were worried even from flying crows. Suddenly a large bird appeared, began to scream in alarm and describe large circles around us. Another Curlew flew in and also began to circle with a cry, the third, obviously from another family, crossed the circle of these two, calmed down and disappeared. I needed to get a curlew egg to my collection, and, counting on the fact that the circles of birds would certainly decrease if I approached the nest, and increase if I moved away, I began, as in a blindfolded game, to wander through the swamp by sounds. So little by little, when the low sun became huge and red in the warm, abundant marsh vapors, I felt the proximity of the nest: the birds screamed unbearably and rushed so close to me that in the red sun I clearly saw their long, crooked, open for a constant alarming screaming noses. Finally, both dogs, grabbing with their upper senses, made a stance. I went in the direction of their eyes and noses and saw, right on a yellow dry strip of moss, near a tiny bush, without any devices or cover, lying two big eggs. Having ordered the dogs to lie down, I happily looked around me, the mosquitoes were biting hard, but I got used to them.
How good it was for me in impregnable marshes, and how far away the earth blew from these big birds with long crooked noses, on bent wings crossing the disk of the red sun!
I was about to bend down to the ground in order to take one of these large beautiful eggs for myself, when I suddenly noticed that in the distance, through the swamp, a man was walking straight towards me. He had neither a gun, nor a dog, and even a stick in his hand, there was no way for anyone from here, and I did not know people like me, who, like me, could wander through the swamp with pleasure under a swarm of mosquitoes. I felt as unpleasant as if, combing my hair in front of a mirror and making some special face at the same time, I suddenly noticed someone else's studying eye in the mirror. I even stepped aside from the nest and did not take the eggs, so that this man would not frighten me with his questions, I felt this, dear moment of being. I told the dogs to get up and led them to the hump. There I sat down on a gray stone so covered with yellow lichens that it did not sit down coldly. The birds, as soon as I moved away, increased their circles, but I could no longer follow them with joy. Anxiety was born in my soul from the approach stranger. I could already see him: elderly, very thin, walking slowly, carefully watching the flight of birds. I felt better when I noticed that he changed direction and went to another hill, where he sat down on a stone, and also turned to stone. I even felt pleased that there was sitting there just like me, a man reverently listening to the evening. It seemed that we understood each other perfectly without any words, and there were no words for this. With redoubled attention I watched the birds cross the red disk of the sun; At the same time, my thoughts about the terms of the earth and about such a short history of mankind were strangely disposed; how, however, everything soon passed.
The sun has set. I looked back at my friend, but he was gone. The birds calmed down, obviously, sat on their nests. Then, commanding the dogs to slink back, I began to approach the nest with inaudible steps: would it not be possible, I thought, to see closely interesting birds. From the bush, I knew exactly where the nest was, and I was very surprised how close the birds let me. Finally, I got close to the bush itself and froze in surprise: behind the bush everything was empty. I touched the moss with my palm: it was still warm from the warm eggs lying on it.
I just looked at the eggs, and the birds, afraid of the human eye, hurried to hide them away.
Verkhoplavka
A golden network of sunbeams trembles on the water. Dark blue dragonflies in reeds and horsetail herringbones. And each dragonfly has its own horsetail tree or reed: it will fly off and will certainly return to it.
Crazy crows brought out the chicks and now they are sitting and resting.
The smallest leaf, on a cobweb, went down to the river and now it is spinning, it is spinning.
So I ride quietly down the river in my boat, and my boat is a little heavier than this leaf, made of fifty-two sticks and covered with canvas. There is only one paddle for it - a long stick, and at the ends there is a spatula. Dip each spatula alternately on both sides. Such a light boat that no effort is needed: he touched the water with a spatula, and the boat floats, and floats so inaudibly that the fish are not at all afraid.
What, what you just don’t see when you quietly ride on such a boat along the river!
Here a rook, flying over the river, dropped into the water, and this lime-white drop, tapping on the water, immediately attracted the attention of small top-melting fish. In an instant, a real bazaar gathered from top melters around a rook drop. Noticing this gathering, large predator- the shelesper fish - swam up and grabbed the water with its tail with such force that the stunned topfins turned upside down. They would come to life in a minute, but the shelesper is not some kind of fool, he knows that it does not happen so often that a rook will drip and so many fools will gather around one drop: grab one, grab another - he ate a lot, and which ones managed to get out , henceforth they will live like scientists, and if something good drips from above, they will look both ways, something bad would not come to them from below.
talking rook
I will tell you an incident that happened to me in a hungry year. A yellow-mouthed young rook got into the habit of flying to me on the windowsill. Apparently, he was an orphan. And at that time I had a whole bag of buckwheat. I ate buckwheat porridge all the time. Here, it happened, a rook would fly in, I would sprinkle cereals on him and ask;
Do you want some porridge, fool?
It pecks and flies away. And so every day, all month. I want to ensure that my question: "Do you want porridge, fool?", He would say: "I want."
And he only opens his yellow nose and shows his red tongue.
Well, okay, - I got angry and abandoned my studies.
By autumn I was in trouble. I climbed into the chest for grits, but there was nothing there. This is how the thieves cleaned it: half a cucumber was on a plate, and that one was taken away. I went to bed hungry. Spinning all night. In the morning I looked in the mirror, my face was all green.
"Knock, knock!" - someone at the window.
On the windowsill, a rook hammers at the glass.
"Here comes the meat!" - I had a thought.
I open the window - and grab it! And he jumped from me to a tree. I'm out the window behind him to the bitch. He is taller. I'm climbing. He is taller and on top of his head. I can't go there; swings a lot. He, the rogue, looks at me from above and says:
Ho-chesh, porridge-ki, du-rush-ka?
Hedgehog
Once I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He also noticed me, curled up and mumbled: knock-knock-knock. It was very similar, as if a car was moving in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and pushed his needles into the boot.
Ah, you are so with me! - I said and pushed him into the stream with the tip of my boot.
Instantly, the hedgehog turned around in the water and swam to the shore like a small pig, only instead of bristles on its back there were needles. I took a stick, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and carried it home.
I have had many mice. I heard - 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 I myself looked at the hedgehog out of the corner of my eye. He did not lie motionless for a long time: as soon as I calmed down at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go there, here, finally chose a place for himself under the bed and there completely calmed down.
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 had risen in the forest: in the moonlight, hedgehogs like to run through the forest clearings.
And so he started running around the room, imagining that it was a forest clearing.
I picked up the pipe, lit a cigarette and let a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked it: he darted between them, sniffing and scratching the backs 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 only noticed how a hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and I myself do not sleep, thinking:
“Why did the hedgehog need a newspaper?” Soon my tenant ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; spun around her, made noise, made noise, finally managed: he somehow put a corner of the newspaper on the thorns and dragged it, huge, into injection.
Then I understood him: the newspaper was like dry leaves in the forest, he dragged it to himself for a nest. And it turned out to be true: soon the hedgehog all turned into a newspaper and made a real nest out of it. Having finished this important business, he went out of his dwelling and stood opposite the bed, looking at the candle-moon.
I let the clouds in and I ask:
What else do you need? The hedgehog was not afraid.
Do you want to drink?
I wake up. The hedgehog does not run.
I took a plate, put it on the floor, brought a bucket of water, and then I poured water into the plate, then poured it into the bucket again, and I made such a noise as if it were a brook splashing.
Well, go, go. - I say. - You see, I arranged for you the moon and clouds, and here's water for you ...
I look like I'm moving forward. And I also moved my lake a little towards it. He will move, and I will move, and so they agreed.
Drink, - I say finally. He began to cry. And I so lightly ran my hand over the thorns, as if stroking, and I keep saying:
You are good, little one! The hedgehog got drunk, I say:
Let's sleep. Lie down and blow out the candle.
I don’t know how much 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 his thorns. He ran to the nest, put it there and after another runs into the corner, and in the corner there was a bag of apples and collapsed. Here the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and runs again, on the thorns he drags another apple into the nest.
And so the hedgehog got a job with me. And now I, like drinking tea, will certainly put it on my table and either I will pour milk into a saucer for him - he will drink it, then I will eat the ladies' buns.
golden meadow
My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. We used to go somewhere to our trade - he was ahead, I was in the heel.
Seryozha! - I will call him busily. He'll look back, and I'll blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, as you gape, he also fuknet. And so we plucked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.
We lived in the village, in front of the window we had a meadow, all golden from many blooming dandelions. This was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.
One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers were yellow on the side of your palm and, clenched into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw dandelions open their palms, and from this the meadow became golden again.
Since then, the dandelion has become one of the most interesting flowers for us, because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.
blue bast shoes
Through our large forest there is a highway with separate paths for cars, for trucks, for carts and for pedestrians. So far, for this highway, only the forest has been cut down by a corridor. 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 big trees they were taken away somewhere, while small brushwood - rookery - was collected in huge heaps. They also wanted to take away the rookery for heating the factory, but they could not manage it, and the heaps all over the wide clearing remained for the winter.
In autumn, the hunters complained that the hares had disappeared somewhere, and some associated this disappearance of hares with deforestation: they chopped, knocked, chirped and scared away. When the powder came up and it was possible to unravel all the tricks of the hare by the tracks, the tracker Rodionich came and said:
- The blue bast shoe is all under the heaps of Grachevnik.
Rodionich, unlike all hunters, did not call the hare "slash", but always "blue bast shoes"; there is nothing to be surprised here: 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 slash devils either.
The rumor about the hares under the heaps instantly ran around our entire town, and on the day off the hunters, led by Rodionich, began to flock to me.
Early in the morning, at the very dawn, we went hunting without dogs: Rodionich was such a master that he could catch a hare on a hunter better than any hound. As soon as it became so visible that it was possible to distinguish between fox and hare tracks, we took hare footprint, followed him, and, of course, he led us to one heap of rookery, as high as ours wooden house with mezzanine. A hare was supposed to lie under this heap, and we, having prepared our guns, became all around.
“Come on,” we said to Rodionich.
"Get out, you blue bastard!" he shouted and thrust a long stick under the pile.
The hare didn't get out. Rodionich was taken aback. And, thinking, with a very serious face, looking at every little thing in the snow, he went around the whole pile and once again went around in a large circle: there was no exit trail anywhere.
“Here he is,” said Rodionich confidently. "Get in your seats, kids, he's here." Ready?
- Let's! we shouted.
"Get out, you blue bastard!" - Rodionich shouted and stabbed three times 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!
There had never been such embarrassment with our oldest tracker in his life: even his face seemed to have fallen a little. With us, the fuss has gone, everyone began to guess something in his own way, stick his nose into everything, walk back and forth in the snow and so, erasing all traces, taking away any opportunity to unravel the trick of a smart hare.
And now, I see, Rodionich suddenly beamed, sat down, satisfied, on a stump at some distance from the hunters, rolled up a cigarette for himself and blinked, now he winks at me and calls me to him. Having realized the matter, unnoticed by everyone I approach Rodionich, and he points me upstairs, to the very top of a high pile of rookery covered with snow.
“Look,” he whispers, “what a blue bast shoe is playing with us.”
Not immediately 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. It was the head sticking out from under the rookery and turning in different directions after the hunters: where they are, the head goes there.
As soon as I raised my gun, the life of a smart hare would end in an instant. But I felt sorry: how many of them, stupid, lie under heaps! ..
Rodionich understood me without words. He crushed a dense lump of snow for himself, waited until the hunters crowded on the other side of the heap, and, having well outlined, let the hare go with this lump.
I never thought that our ordinary hare, if he suddenly stands on a heap, and even jumps two arshins up, and appears against the sky, that our hare might seem like a giant on a huge rock!
What happened to the hunters? The hare, after all, fell directly to them from the sky. In an instant, everyone grabbed their guns - it was very easy to kill. But each hunter wanted to kill the other before the other, and each, of course, had enough without aiming at all, and the lively hare set off into the bushes.
- Here is a blue bast shoe! - Rodionich said admiringly after him.
Hunters once again managed to grab the bushes.
- Killed! - shouted one, young, hot.
But suddenly, as if in response to the "killed", a tail flashed in the distant bushes; for some reason hunters always call this tail a flower.
The blue bast shoe only waved its "flower" to hunters from distant bushes.
To portray bright world nature for the youngest readers, many writers turned to such a genre of literature as a fairy tale. Even in many folk tales main actors natural phenomena, forest, frost, snow, water, plants act. These Russian fairy tales about nature are very fascinating and informative, they talk about the change of seasons, the sun, the moon, various animals. It is worth recalling the most famous of them: "The winter hut of animals", "Sister Chanterelle and Gray wolf", "Mitten", "Teremok", "Kolobok". Tales about nature were also composed by many Russians and it is worth noting such authors as K. Paustovsky, K. Ushinsky, V. Bianki, D. Mamin-Sibiryak, M. Prishvin, N. Sladkov, I. Sokolov-Mikitov, E. Permyak Fairy tales about nature teach children to love the world around them, to be attentive and observant.
The magic of the surrounding world in the fairy tales of D. Ushinsky
Russian writer D. Ushinsky, like a talented artist, wrote fairy tales about natural phenomena, different times of the year. Children from these small works will learn about how the stream rustles, clouds float and birds sing. The most famous tales of the writer: "The Raven and the Magpie", "Woodpecker", "Goose and Crane", "Horse", "Bishka", "Wind and Sun", as well as a huge number of stories. Ushinsky skillfully uses animals and nature to reveal to young readers such concepts as greed, nobility, betrayal, stubbornness, cunning. These fairy tales are very kind, they are recommended to be read to children before going to bed. Ushinsky's books are very well illustrated.
Creations by D. Mamin-Sibiryak for children
Man and nature is a very urgent problem for modern world. Mamin-Sibiryak devoted many works to this topic, but the collection "Alyonushka's Tales" should be especially singled out. The writer himself raised and cared for a sick daughter, and this interesting collection was intended for her. In these fairy tales, children will get acquainted with Komar Komarovich, Ersh Ershovich, Shaggy Misha, Brave Hare. From these entertaining works, children learn about the life of animals, insects, birds, fish, plants. Since childhood, almost everyone has been familiar with a very touching cartoon filmed based on the fairy tale of the same name by Mamin-Sibiryak "The Gray Neck".
M. Prishvin and nature
Short tales about the nature of Prishvin are very kind and fascinating, they tell about the habits of forest inhabitants, about the grandeur and beauty of their native places. Little readers will learn about the rustle of leaves, forest smells, the murmur of a stream. All these stories end well, evoke in readers a feeling of empathy for the smaller brothers and a desire to help them. Most famous stories: "Pantry of the sun", "Khromka", "Hedgehog".
Tales of V. Bianchi
Russian fairy tales and stories about plants and animals are presented by another wonderful writer - Vitaly Bianki. His fairy tales teach children to unravel the mysteries of the life of birds and animals. Many of them are intended for the youngest readers: "The Fox and the Mouse", "Cuckoo", "Golden Heart", " Orange neck"," The First Hunt "and many others. Bianchi was able to observe the life of nature through the eyes of children. Some of his tales about nature are endowed with tragedy or humor, they contain lyrical meditation and poetry.
Forest fairy tales by Nikolai Sladkov
Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov wrote more than 60, he was also the author of the radio program "News from the Forest". The heroes of his books are kind, funny little animals. Each story is very sweet and kind, tells about funny habits and Little readers will learn from them that animals can also experience and grieve as they store food for the winter. Sladkov's favorite fairy tales: "Forest Rustles", "Badger and Bear", "Polite Jackdaw", "Hare Dance", "Desperate Hare".
Pantry of fairy tales by E. Permyak
Fairy tales about nature were composed by the famous playwright and writer Yevgeny Andreevich Permyak. They are representatives of the golden fund. These small works teach children to be hardworking, honest, responsible, to believe in themselves and their strengths. It is necessary to highlight the most famous tales of Evgeny Andreevich: " Birch Grove", "Smorodinka", "How Fire Married Water", "The First Fish", "About a Hasty Tit and a Patient Tit", "Ugly Christmas Tree". Permyak's books were very colorfully illustrated by the most famous Russian artists.