M Prishvin read stories. A story about nature, in general. Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin "Birch bark tube"

17.06.2019

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 it was 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 grew from all this. What silence, what grace.

clear ice

It is good to look at that transparent ice, where the frost did not make flowers and did not cover the water with them. It can be seen how the stream under this thinnest ice drives huge herd 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, got 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 was lying, 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 swamps and how far away the earth blew from these large 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, a 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 kept 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, dandelion has become for us one of the most interesting colors because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.

blue bast shoes

Highways run through our large forest with separate paths for cars, trucks, carts and 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 a hare track, followed it, and, of course, it led us to one heap of rookery, as tall 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.

Who doesn't remember their first books? Probably no such person exists. From the first thick pages of "baby" books, children begin to get acquainted with the world around them. They learn about the inhabitants of the forest and their habits, about domestic animals and their benefits to humans, about the life of plants and the seasons. Books gradually, with each page, bring kids closer to the world of nature, teach them to take care of it, to live in harmony with it.

special, unique place among literary works, intended for children's reading, are occupied by Prishvin's stories about nature. An unsurpassed master of the short genre, he subtly and clearly described the world forest dwellers. Sometimes a few sentences were enough for this.

Observation of a young naturalist

As a boy, M. Prishvin felt his vocation for writing. Stories about nature appeared in the first notes of his own diary, which began in the childhood of the future writer. He grew up as an inquisitive and very attentive child. The small estate where Prishvin spent his childhood was located in the Oryol province, famous for its dense forests, sometimes impenetrable.

Fascinating stories of hunters about encounters with the inhabitants of the forest early childhood excite the boy's imagination. No matter how the young naturalist asked to hunt, for the first time his desire was fulfilled only at the age of 13. Until that time, he was allowed to walk only in the district, and for such solitude he used every opportunity.

First forest impressions

During his favorite walks in the forest, the young dreamer listened with pleasure to the singing of birds, carefully looked at the slightest changes in nature and looked for meetings with its mysterious inhabitants. Often he got from his mother for a long absence. But the boy's stories about his forest discoveries were so emotional and full of delight that parental anger was quickly replaced by mercy. The little naturalist immediately wrote down all his observations in his diary.

It was these first recordings of impressions from meetings with the secrets of nature that entered the stories about the nature of Prishvin and helped the writer find those exact words that even kids could understand.

Attempt at writing

The writing talent of the young nature lover was first truly noticed at the Yelets Gymnasium, where the writer V. Rozanov worked as a geography teacher at that time. It was he who noted the attentive attitude of the teenager to native land and the ability to accurately, concisely, very clearly describe their impressions in school essays. The teacher's recognition of Prishvin's special powers of observation subsequently played an important role in the decision to devote himself to literature. But it will be accepted only by the age of 30, and all previous years his diary will become a treasury of naturalistic impressions. Many of Prishvin's stories about nature, written for young readers, will appear from this piggy bank.

Member of the expedition to the northern regions

The craving of the future writer for biology manifested itself first in the desire to acquire the profession of an agronomist (he studied in Germany). Then he successfully applied the acquired knowledge in agricultural science (he worked at the Moscow Agricultural Academy). But the turning point in his life was his acquaintance with academician-linguist A.A. Chess.

The general interest in ethnography prompted the writer to go on a scientific expedition to the northern regions of Russia to study folklore and collect local legends.

The nature of native places has overcome doubts

The virginity and purity of the northern landscapes made an indelible impression on the writer, and this fact became a turning point in determining his destination. It was on this journey that his thoughts were often carried away to childhood, when as a boy he wanted to escape to distant Asia. Here, among the untouched forest expanses, he realized that his native nature had become for him that very dream, but not distant, but close and understandable. “Only here for the first time did I understand what it means to live on my own and be responsible for myself,” Prishvin wrote on the pages of his diary. Stories about nature formed the basis of impressions from that trip and were included in the naturalistic collection "In the land of fearless birds." The wide recognition of the book opened the doors for its author to all literary societies.

Having received invaluable experience as a naturalist in his travels, the writer gives birth to books one after another. Travel notes and essays by a naturalist will form the basis of such works as “Behind the Magic Kolobok”, “Light Lake”, “Black Arab”, “Bird Cemetery” and “Glorious Tambourines”. In Russian literary circles It is Mikhail Prishvin who will be recognized as the “singer of nature”. The stories about nature, written by this time, were already very popular and served as an example for the study of literature in the primary grades of gymnasiums.

nature singer

In the 1920s, Prishvin's first stories about nature appeared, marking the beginning of a whole series of short sketches about the life of the forest - children's and hunting. Naturalistic and geographical notes at this stage of creativity receive a philosophical and poetic coloring and are collected in the book "Calendar of Nature", where Prishvin himself becomes "a poet and singer of pure life". Nature stories are now all about celebrating the beauties that surround us. The kind, humane and easy-to-understand language of the narration cannot leave anyone indifferent. In these literary sketches, little readers not only discover new world forest dwellers, but also learn to understand what it means to be attentive to them.

The moral core of M. Prishvin's children's stories

Having received a certain baggage of knowledge in the first years of life, children continue to replenish it, having crossed the threshold of the school. Thrift for the natural resources of the earth is formed both at the stage of cognition and in the process of their creation. Man and nature in Prishvin's stories are the very basis for the education of moral values, which should be laid from early childhood. And fiction has a special impact on the fragile feelings of children. It is the book that serves as a platform of knowledge, a support for the future integral personality.

The value of Prishvin's stories for the moral education of children lies in his own perception of nature. The author himself becomes the main character on the pages of short stories. Reflecting his childhood impressions through hunting sketches, the writer conveys to the kids an important idea: it is necessary to hunt not for animals, but for knowledge about them. He went hunting for starlings, quails, butterflies and grasshoppers without a gun. Explaining this strangeness for experienced foresters, he said that his main trophy was finds and observations. The hunter for finds very subtly notices any changes around, and under his pen, between the lines, nature is filled with life: it sounds and breathes.

Live pages with sounds and breath

From the pages of the books of the writer-naturalist you can hear the real sounds and dialect of forest life. The inhabitants of the green spaces whistle and cuckoo, yell and squeak, buzz and hiss. Grass, trees, streams and lakes, paths and even old stumps - all live a real life. In the story "Golden Meadow" simple dandelions fall asleep at night and wake up at sunrise. Just like people. The mushroom, familiar to everyone, with difficulty lifting leaves on its shoulders, is compared with the hero in "Strongman". In "The Edge", children through the eyes of the author see a spruce tree, similar to a lady dressed in a long dress, and her companions - fir-trees.

Prishvin's stories about nature, so easily perceived by children's imagination and forcing kids to look at the natural world with the eyes of joy and surprise, undoubtedly indicate that the writer kept the world of the child in his soul until old age.

Mikhail Prishvin "Forest Master"

That was on a sunny day, otherwise I’ll tell you how it was in the forest just before the rain. There was such silence, there was such tension in anticipation of the first drops, that it seemed that every leaf, every needle was trying to be the first and catch the first drop of rain. And so it became in the forest, as if each smallest essence received its own, separate expression.

So I go in to them at this time, and it seems to me: they all, like people, turned their faces towards me and, out of their stupidity, ask me, like a god, for rain.

“Come on, old man,” I ordered the rain, “you will torment us all, go, go, start!”

But the rain did not listen to me this time, and I remembered my new straw hat: it will rain - and my hat is gone. But then, thinking about the hat, I saw an unusual Christmas tree. She grew up, of course, in the shade, and that is why her branches were once lowered down. Now, after selective felling, she found herself in the light, and each branch of her began to grow upwards. Probably, the lower boughs would have risen over time, but these branches, having touched the ground, released their roots and clung ... So, under the tree with the branches raised up below, a good hut turned out. Having cut the spruce branches, I compacted it, made an entrance, and laid the seat below. And as soon as I sat down to start a new conversation with the rain, as I see it, it is burning very close against me. a big tree. I quickly grabbed a spruce branch from the hut, gathered it into a broom and, quilting over the burning place, little by little extinguished the fire before the flame burned through the bark of the tree around and thus made it impossible for the juice to flow.

Around the tree, the place was not burned by a fire, cows were not grazed here, and there could not be undershepherds on which everyone blamed for the fires. Remembering my childhood robber years, I realized that the tar on the tree was most likely set on fire by some boy out of mischief, out of curiosity to see how the tar would burn. As I descended into my childhood years, I imagined how pleasant it was to strike a match and set fire to a tree.

It became clear to me that the pest, when the tar caught fire, suddenly saw me and disappeared immediately somewhere in the nearest bushes. Then, pretending that I was continuing my way, whistling, I left the place of the fire and, having taken several dozen steps along the clearing, jumped into the bushes and returned to the old place and also hid.

I did not have long to wait for the robber. A fair-haired boy of seven or eight years old came out of the bush, with a reddish sunny bake, bold, open eyes, half-naked and with excellent build. He looked hostilely in the direction of the clearing where I had gone, raised fir cone and, wanting to let it into me, he swung so hard that he even turned over around himself.

This didn't bother him; on the contrary, like a real master of the forests, he put both hands in his pockets, began to look at the place of the fire and said:

- Come out, Zina, he's gone!

A girl came out, a little older, a little taller, and with a large basket in her hand.

“Zina,” the boy said, “you know what?

Zina looked at him with large calm eyes and answered simply:

— No, Vasya, I don't know.

- Where are you! said the owner of the forests. “I want to tell you: if that person hadn’t come, if he hadn’t put out the fire, then, perhaps, the whole forest would have burned down from this tree.” If only we could have a look!

- You are fool! Zina said.

“True, Zina,” I said, “I thought of something to brag about, a real fool!”

And as soon as I said these words, the perky owner of the forests suddenly, as they say, "flee away."

And Zina, apparently, did not even think of answering for the robber, she calmly looked at me, only her eyebrows rose a little in surprise.

At the sight of such a reasonable girl, I wanted to turn the whole story into a joke, win her over and then work together on the master of the forests.

Just at this time, the tension of all sentient beings waiting for rain reached its extreme.

“Zina,” I said, “look how all the leaves, all the blades of grass are waiting for the rain. There, the hare cabbage even climbed onto the stump to capture the first drops.

The girl liked my joke, she graciously smiled at me.

- Well, old man, - I said to the rain, - you will torment us all, start, let's go!

And this time the rain obeyed, went. And the girl seriously, thoughtfully focused on me and pursed her lips, as if she wanted to say: “Jokes are jokes, but still it started to rain.”

“Zina,” I said hurriedly, “tell me, what do you have in that big basket?”

She showed: there were two white mushrooms. We put my new hat in the basket, covered it with a fern, and headed out of the rain to my hut. Having broken another spruce branch, we covered it well and climbed in.

“Vasya,” the girl shouted. - It will fool, come out!

And the owner of the forests, driven by the pouring rain, did not hesitate to appear.

As soon as the boy sat down next to us and wanted to say something, I raised my index finger and ordered the owner:

- No hoo-hoo!

And all three of us froze.

It is impossible to convey the delights of being in the forest under the Christmas tree during a warm summer rain. A crested hazel grouse, driven by the rain, burst into the middle of our thick Christmas tree and sat down right above the hut. Quite in sight under a branch, a finch settled down. The hedgehog has arrived. A hare hobbled past. And for a long time the rain whispered and whispered something to our tree. And we sat for a long time, and everything was as if the real owner of the forests was whispering to each of us separately, whispering, whispering ...

Mikhail Prishvin "Dead Tree"

When the rain passed and everything around sparkled, we went out of the forest along the path broken by the feet of passers-by. At the very exit, there was a huge and once mighty tree that had seen more than one generation of people. Now it stood completely dead, it was, as the foresters say, "dead."

Looking around this tree, I said to the children:

“Perhaps a passer-by, wanting to rest here, stuck an ax into this tree and hung his heavy bag on the ax. After that, the tree got sick and began to heal the wound with resin. Or maybe, fleeing from the hunter, a squirrel hid in the dense crown of this tree, and the hunter, in order to drive it out of the shelter, began to knock on the trunk with a heavy log. Sometimes just one blow is enough to make a tree sick.

And many, many things can happen to a tree, as well as to a person and to any living creature, from which the disease will be taken. Or maybe lightning struck?

It started with something, and the tree began to fill its wound with resin. When the tree began to fall ill, the worm, of course, found out about it. The bark climbed under the bark and began to sharpen there. In its own way, the woodpecker somehow found out about the worm and, in search of a stub, began to hollow out a tree here and there. Will you find it soon? And then, perhaps, it’s so that while the woodpecker is hammering and gouging so that it could be grabbed by him, the stump will advance at that time, and the forest carpenter needs to hammer again. And not just one shorthand, and not one woodpecker too. This is how woodpeckers hammer a tree, and the tree, weakening, fills everything with resin.

Now look around the tree at the traces of fires and understand: people walk along this path, stop here to rest and, despite the ban on making fires in the forest, they collect firewood and set it on fire. And in order to quickly kindle, they cut off a resinous crust from a tree. So, little by little, from the cutting, a white ring formed around the tree, the upward movement of the juices stopped, and the tree withered. Now tell me, who is to blame for the death of a beautiful tree that has stood for at least two centuries in its place: disease, lightning, stalks, woodpeckers?

- A shorthand! Vasya said quickly.

And, looking at Zina, he corrected himself:

The children were probably very friendly, and fast Vasya was used to reading the truth from the face of the calm, clever Zina. So, probably, he would have licked the truth from her face this time, but I asked her:

- And you, Zinochka, what do you think, my dear daughter?

The girl put her hand around her mouth, looked at me with intelligent eyes, as at school at a teacher, and answered:

“Maybe people are to blame.

“People, people are to blame,” I picked up after her.

And, like a real teacher, I told them about everything, as I think for myself: that the woodpeckers and the squiggle are not to blame, because they have neither a human mind nor a conscience that illuminates the guilt in a person; that each of us will be born a master of nature, but only has to learn a lot to understand the forest in order to get the right to dispose of it and become a real master of the forest.

I didn’t forget to tell about myself that I still study constantly and without any plan or idea, I don’t interfere in anything in the forest.

Here I did not forget to tell about my recent discovery of fiery arrows, and about how I spared even one cobweb.

After that, we left the forest, and it always happens to me now: in the forest I behave like a student, and I leave the forest as a teacher.

Mikhail Prishvin "Forest floors"

Birds and animals in the forest have their own floors: mice live in the roots - at the very bottom; various birds, like the nightingale, build their nests right on the ground; thrushes - even higher, on bushes; hollow birds - woodpecker, titmouse, owls - even higher; at different heights along the tree trunk and at the very top, predators settle: hawks and eagles.

I once had to observe in the forest that they, animals and birds, with floors are not like ours in skyscrapers: we can always change with someone, with them each breed certainly lives on its own floor.

Once, while hunting, we came to a clearing with dead birches. It often happens that birch trees grow to a certain age and dry up.

Another tree, having dried up, drops its bark on the ground, and therefore the uncovered wood soon rots and the whole tree falls, while the bark of a birch does not fall; this resinous, white bark on the outside - birch bark - is an impenetrable case for a tree, and a dead tree stands for a long time, like a living one.

Even when the tree rots and the wood turns into dust, heavy with moisture, the white birch looks like it is alive. But it is worthwhile, however, to give such a tree a good push, when suddenly it will break everything into heavy pieces and fall. Felling such trees is a very fun activity, but also dangerous: a piece of wood, if you don’t dodge it, can really hit you on the head. But still, we, hunters, are not very afraid, and when we get to such birches, we begin to destroy them in front of each other.

So we came to a clearing with such birches and brought down a rather tall birch. Falling, in the air it broke into several pieces, and in one of them there was a hollow with a nest of a Gadget. Little chicks were not injured when the tree fell, only fell out of the hollow together with their nest. Naked chicks, covered with feathers, opened wide red mouths and, mistaking us for parents, squeaked and asked us for a worm. We dug up the earth, found worms, gave them a snack, they ate, swallowed and squeaked again.

Very soon, parents flew in, titmouse, with white puffy cheeks and worms in their mouths, sat on nearby trees.

“Hello, dear ones,” we said to them, “misfortune has come; we didn't want that.

The Gadgets could not answer us, but, most importantly, they could not understand what had happened, where the tree had gone, where their children had disappeared. They were not at all afraid of us, fluttering from branch to branch in great alarm.

- Yes, here they are! We showed them the nest on the ground. - Here they are, listen how they squeak, what your name is!

Gadgets did not listen to anything, fussed, worried and did not want to go downstairs and go beyond their floor.

“Maybe,” we said to each other, “they are afraid of us. Let's hide! - And they hid.

Not! The chicks squeaked, the parents squeaked, fluttered, but did not go down.

We guessed then that the birds are not like ours in skyscrapers, they cannot change floors: now it just seems to them that the whole floor with their chicks has disappeared.

“Oh-oh-oh,” said my companion, “well, what fools you are! ..

It became a pity and funny: they are so nice and with wings, but they don’t want to understand anything.

Then we took that large piece in which the nest was located, broke the top of the neighboring birch and put our piece with the nest on it just at the same height as the destroyed floor.

We did not have to wait long in ambush: in a few minutes, happy parents met their chicks.

Mikhail Prishvin "Old Starling"

The starlings hatched and flew away, and their place in the birdhouse has long been occupied by sparrows. But until now, on the same apple tree, on a good dewy morning, an old starling flies and sings.

That's strange!

It would seem that everything is already over, the female brought out the chicks long ago, the cubs grew up and flew away...

Why does the old starling fly every morning to the apple tree where his spring passed, and sing?

Mikhail Prishvin "Spider web"

It was a sunny day, so bright that the rays penetrated even into the darkest forest. I walked forward along such a narrow clearing that some trees on one side were bent over to the other, and this tree whispered something with its leaves to another tree on the other side. The wind was very weak, but still it was: and aspens babbled above, and below, as always, the ferns swayed importantly.

Suddenly I noticed: from side to side across the clearing, from left to right, some small fiery arrows constantly fly here and there. As always in such cases, I concentrated my attention on the arrows and soon noticed that the movement of the arrows was in the wind, from left to right.

I also noticed that on the Christmas trees their usual shoots-paws came out of their orange shirts and the wind blew off these unnecessary shirts from each tree in a great multitude: each new paw on the Christmas tree was born in an orange shirt, and now how many paws, so many shirts flew off - thousands, millions...

I could see how one of these flying shirts met with one of the flying arrows and suddenly hung in the air, and the arrow disappeared.

I realized then that the shirt was hanging on a cobweb invisible to me, and this gave me the opportunity to go point-blank to the cobweb and fully understand the phenomenon of the arrows: the wind blows the cobweb to the sunbeam, the brilliant cobweb flares up from the light, and from this it seems as if the arrow is flying.

At the same time, I realized that there were a great many of these cobwebs stretched across the clearing, and, therefore, if I walked, I tore them, without knowing it, by the thousands.

It seemed to me that I had such an important goal - to learn in the forest to be its real master - that I had the right to tear all the cobwebs and make all the forest spiders work for my goal. But for some reason I spared this cobweb that I noticed: after all, it was she who, thanks to the shirt hanging on her, helped me unravel the phenomenon of arrows.

Was I cruel, tearing thousands of cobwebs?

Not at all: I did not see them - my cruelty was the result of my physical strength.

Was I merciful in bending my weary back to save the gossamer? I don’t think: in the forest I behave like a student, and if I could, I wouldn’t touch anything.

I attribute the salvation of this cobweb to the action of my concentrated attention.

Mikhail Prishvin "Spider web"

I could see how one of these flying shirts met with one of the flying arrows and suddenly hung in the air, and the arrow disappeared.

At the same time, I realized that there were a great many of these cobwebs stretched across the clearing, and, therefore, if I walked, I tore them, without knowing it, by the thousands.

Was I cruel, tearing thousands of cobwebs?

Not at all: I did not see them - my cruelty was the result of my physical strength.

Was I merciful in bending my weary back to save the gossamer? I don’t think: in the forest I behave like a student, and if I could, I wouldn’t touch anything.

I attribute the salvation of this cobweb to the action of my concentrated attention.

Sergey Aksakov "Nest"

Noticing the nest of some bird, most often the dawn or redstart, we each time went to see how the mother sits on the eggs.

Sometimes, by negligence, we frightened her away from the nest, and then, carefully parting the thorny branches of barberry or gooseberry, we looked at how they were lying in the nest. small - small, speckled testicles.

It sometimes happened that the mother, bored with our curiosity, abandoned the nest; then we, seeing that for several days the bird was not in the nest and that it did not cry out and did not spin around us, as it always happened, we took out the testicles or the whole nest and took them to our room, believing that we were the legal owners of the dwelling left by the mother .

When the bird, despite our interference, satisfactorily incubated its testicles, and we suddenly found instead of them naked cubs, constantly opening their huge mouths with a mournful quiet squeak, we saw how the mother flew in and fed them flies and worms ... My God, what was we have joy!

We never stopped watching how the little birds grew up, gave gifts and finally left their nest.

Konstantin Paustovsky "Gift"

Every time autumn approached, talk began that much in nature is not arranged the way we would like. Our winter is long, protracted, summer is much shorter than winter, and autumn passes instantly and leaves the impression of a golden bird flashing outside the window.

The grandson of the forester Vanya Malyavin, a boy of about fifteen, liked to listen to our conversations. He often came to our village from his grandfather's gatehouse from Lake Urzhensky and brought either a bag of porcini mushrooms, or a sieve of lingonberries, otherwise he just ran to stay with us: listen to conversations and read the magazine "Around the World".

Thick, bound volumes of this magazine lay in the closet, along with oars, lanterns, and an old beehive. The hive was painted with white adhesive paint.

It fell off the dry wood in large pieces, and the wood smelled of old wax under the paint.

One day Vanya brought a small birch dug up by the roots.

He overlaid the roots with damp moss and wrapped in matting.

“This is for you,” he said, and blushed. - Present. Plant it in a wooden tub and put it in a warm room - it will be green all winter.

"Why did you dig it up, weirdo?" Reuben asked.

“You said that you feel sorry for the summer,” Vanya answered. “Grandfather made me think. “Run away, he says, to last year’s burnt area, there birch-two-year-old birch trees grow like grass, there is no passage from them. Dig it up and take it to Rum Isaevich (as my grandfather called Reuben). He worries about the summer, so he will have a summer memory for the icy winter. It is, of course, fun to look at a green leaf when the snow is falling like a sack in the yard.

- I'm not only about summer, I regret autumn even more, - said Reuben and touched the thin leaves of a birch.

We brought a box from the barn, filled it to the top with earth and transplanted a small birch into it.

The box was placed in the brightest and warmest room by the window, and a day later the drooping branches of the birch tree rose, all of it cheered up, and even its leaves were already rustling when a through wind rushed into the room and slammed the door in their hearts.

Autumn settled in the garden, but the leaves of our birch remained green and alive. The maples burned with a dark purple, the euonymus turned pink, the wild grapes dried up on the arbor.

Even in some places yellow strands appeared on the birches in the garden, like the first gray hair of a still young person.

But the birch in the room seemed to be growing younger. We did not notice any signs of wilting in her.

One night the first frost came. He breathed cold on the windows in the house, and they fogged up, sprinkled grainy frost on the roof, crunched underfoot.

Only the stars seemed to rejoice at the first frost and sparkled much brighter than on warm summer nights.

That night I woke up from a long and pleasant sound - a shepherd's horn sang in the dark. Outside the windows, the dawn was barely perceptible.

I got dressed and went out into the garden. The harsh air washed my face cold water The dream passed immediately.

Dawn broke out. The blue in the east was replaced by a crimson haze, like the smoke of a fire.

This haze brightened, became more and more transparent, through it the distant and tender countries of golden and pink clouds were already visible.

There was no wind, but the leaves kept falling and falling in the garden.

During that one night the birch trees turned yellow to the very tops, and the leaves fell from them in a frequent and sad rain.

I returned to the rooms: they were warm, sleepy.

In the pale light of dawn, a small birch stood in a tub, and I suddenly noticed that almost all of it had turned yellow that night, and several lemon leaves were already lying on the floor.

Room warmth did not save the birch. A day later, she flew around all over, as if she did not want to lag behind her adult friends, crumbling in cold forests, groves, in spacious glades damp in autumn.

Vanya Malyavin, Reuben and all of us were upset. We have already gotten used to the idea that on winter snowy days the birch will turn green in rooms lit by the white sun and the crimson flame of cheerful stoves. The last memory of summer is gone.

A familiar forester chuckled when we told him about our attempt to save the green foliage on the birch.

“It's the law,” he said. - Law of nature. If the trees did not shed their leaves for the winter, they would die from many things - from the weight of the snow that would grow on the leaves and break the thickest branches, and from the fact that by autumn many salts harmful to the tree would accumulate in the foliage, and, finally, from the fact that the leaves would continue to evaporate moisture even in the middle of winter, and the frozen earth would not give it to the roots of the tree, and the tree would inevitably die from the winter drought, from thirst.

And grandfather Mitriy, nicknamed "Ten Percent", having learned about this little story with a birch, interpreted it in his own way.

- You, my dear, - he said to Reuben, - live with mine, then argue. And then you argue with me all the time, but you can see that you still didn’t have enough time to think with your mind. We, the old ones, are more capable of thinking. We have little concern - so we figure out what is what on earth is hewn and what explanation it has. Take, say, this birch. Don't tell me about the forester, I know in advance everything he will say. The forester is a cunning man, when he lived in Moscow, they say, he cooked his own food on an electric current. Can it be or not?

“Maybe,” Reuben replied.

“Maybe, maybe!” his grandfather teased. - And you this electricity seen? How did you see him when he has no visibility, sort of like air? You hear about the birch. Is there friendship between people or not? That is what is. And people get carried away. They think that friendship is only given to them, they boast in front of every living being. And friendship is, brother, everywhere you look. What can I say, a cow is friends with a cow and a chaffinch with a chaffinch. Kill the crane, so the crane will wither away, cry, it will not find a place for itself. And every grass and tree, too, must have friendship sometimes. How can your birch not fly around when all its companions in the forests flew around? With what eyes will she look at them in the spring, what will she say when they suffered in the winter, and she warmed herself by the stove, warm, but full, and clean? You also need to have a conscience.

“Well, it’s you, grandfather, who turned it down,” said Reuben. “You don’t run into.

Grandpa giggled.

- Weak? he asked caustically. - Are you giving up? You don't start with me, it's useless.

Grandfather left, tapping with a stick, very pleased, confident that he had won all of us in this dispute and, along with us, the forester.

We planted the birch in the garden, under the fence, and collected its yellow leaves and dried them between the pages of Around the World.

Ivan Bunin "Birch Forest"

Behind the wheat, behind the birch, a silky birch shrub, dark green, appeared.

The place here is steppe, flat, it seems very deaf: you see nothing but the sky and endless bushes when you enter Lanskoe.

Everywhere the land was lushly overgrown, and even here it was an impassable thicket.

Herbs - to the waist; where the bushes - do not mow.

To the waist and flowers. From flowers - white, blue, pink, yellow - ripples in the eyes. Entire glades are flooded with them, so beautiful that they grow only in birch forests.

Clouds gathered, the wind carried the songs of larks, but they were lost in the constant, running rustle and noise.

Barely outlined among the bushes and stumps stalled road.

It smelled sweet of strawberries, bitter - of strawberries, birch, wormwood.

Anton Chekhov "Evening in the steppe"

On July evenings and nights, the quails and corncrakes no longer sing, the nightingales no longer sing in the forest ravines, there is no smell of flowers, but the steppe is still beautiful and full of life. As soon as the sun sets and the earth is enveloped in darkness, the daytime anguish is forgotten, everything is forgiven, and the steppe sighs easily with a wide chest. As if from the fact that the grass is not visible in the darkness of its old age, a cheerful, young chatter rises in it, which does not happen during the day; crackling, whistling, scratching, steppe basses, tenors and trebles - everything mixes into a continuous, monotonous rumble, under which it is good to remember and be sad. The monotonous chatter lulls like a lullaby; you drive and feel that you are falling asleep, but then from somewhere comes the abrupt, alarming cry of a bird that has not fallen asleep, or an indefinite sound is heard, similar to someone’s voice, like a surprised “ah!”, and drowsiness lowers the eyelids. And then, it happened, you go past a ravine where there are bushes, and you hear how a bird, which the steppe people call spit, shouts to someone: “I’m sleeping! I'm sleeping! I’m sleeping! ”, And the other laughs or bursts into hysterical crying - this is an owl. For whom they cry and who listens to them on this plain, God knows them, but their cry contains a lot of sadness and lamentation... It smells of hay, dried grass and belated flowers, but the smell is thick, sweetly cloying and tender.

Everything is visible through the darkness, but it is difficult to make out the color and outlines of objects. Everything does not seem to be what it is. You are driving and suddenly you see, in front of the road itself, there is a silhouette that looks like a monk; he doesn't move, he waits and holds something in his hands... Isn't this a robber? The figure is approaching, growing, now it has caught up with the cart, and you see that this is not a person, but a lonely bush or a large stone. Such immovable figures, waiting for someone, stand on the hills, hide behind mounds, look out from the weeds, and they all look like people and inspire suspicion.

And when the moon rises, the night becomes pale and languid. The fog was gone. The air is transparent, fresh and warm, everywhere you can clearly see and you can even make out individual stalks of weeds by the road. Skulls and stones are visible in the distance. Suspicious figures, similar to monks, against the light background of the night seem blacker and look more gloomy. More and more often, among the monotonous chatter, disturbing the still air, someone’s surprised “ah!” and the cry of a sleepless or raving bird is heard. Wide shadows walk across the plain like clouds across the sky, and in an incomprehensible distance, if you peer into it for a long time, foggy, bizarre images rise and pile on top of each other ... A little creepy. And look at the pale green, star-studded sky, on which there is not a cloud, not a spot, and you will understand why warm air motionless, which is why nature is on the alert and afraid to move: it is terribly and sorry to lose at least one moment of life. The immense depth and boundlessness of the sky can only be judged at sea and in the steppe at night when the moon is shining. It is scary, beautiful and affectionate, it looks languidly and beckons to itself, and its head is spinning from its caress. You drive for an hour or two... You come across a silent old mound or a stone woman, set up by God knows who and when, a night bird silently flies over the earth, and little by little steppe legends, stories of strangers, fairy tales of a steppe nanny and all come to mind. what he himself was able to see and comprehend with his soul. And then in the chatter of insects, in suspicious figures and mounds, in the blue sky, in the moonlight, in the flight of a night bird, in everything you see and hear, the triumph of beauty, youth, the flowering of strength and a passionate thirst for life begin to seem; the soul gives a response to the beautiful, harsh homeland, and I want to fly over the steppe together with nocturnal bird. And in the triumph of beauty, in excess of happiness, you feel tension and anguish, as if the steppe realizes that it is lonely, that its wealth and inspiration perish for nothing for the world, praised by no one and no one needs, and through the joyful roar you hear its dreary, hopeless call : singer! singer!

Ivan Turgenev "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword"

Excerpt. From the cycle "Notes of a hunter"

The weather was beautiful, even more beautiful than before; but the heat did not subside. By clear sky high and sparse clouds were barely moving, yellow-white, like belated spring snow, flat and oblong, like lowered sails. Their patterned edges, fluffy and light, like cotton paper, slowly but visibly changed with every moment; they melted, those clouds, and no shadow fell from them.

We wandered around with Kasyan for a long time. Young offspring, which had not yet managed to stretch out above a arshin, surrounded blackened, low stumps with their thin, smooth stems; round spongy growths with gray borders, the very growths from which tinder is boiled, clung to these stumps; strawberries let their pink tendrils run over them; mushrooms immediately sat closely in families. Feet constantly tangled and clung to the long grass, satiated with the hot sun; everywhere there were ripples in the eyes from the sharp metallic sparkle of young, reddish leaves on the trees; everywhere were blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half lilac, half yellow flowers Ivana da Marya; in some places, near the abandoned paths, on which the tracks of the wheels were marked by stripes of red fine grass, heaps of firewood towered, darkened from the wind and rain, stacked in sazhens; a faint shadow fell from them in oblique quadrangles—there was no other shadow anywhere.

A light breeze either woke up or subsided: it suddenly blows right in the face and seems to play out - everything makes a merry noise, nods and moves around, the flexible ends of the ferns gracefully sway - you will be delighted with it ... but now it froze again, and everything again quieted down.

Some grasshoppers crackle in unison, as if embittered - and this incessant, sour and dry sound is tiring.

He goes to the relentless heat of noon; it is as if he was born by him, as if called by him from the hot earth.

Konstantin Ushinsky "Mountain Country"

Living in the middle of Russia, we cannot form a clear idea of what a mountainous country is.

Our low, gently sloping hills, which you drive up almost without noticing them, rising a lot to a hundred or a hundred and fifty fathoms, and along the slopes of which we see all the same fields, forests, groves, villages and villages, of course, bear little resemblance to high mountains, the tops of which are covered with eternal snow and ice and, rising three, four versts upwards, go far beyond the clouds. In the plain you travel a hundred, two hundred miles, meeting everywhere the same species, the same vegetation, the same way of life.

Not so in the mountains. How much variety is even one big mountain, if you climb it along the roads laid in the valleys, and then along the dangerous mountain paths that meander along its ledges. It seems warm and even hot to you when you stand at the foot of the mountain: summer is all around, gardens with ripening fruits and fields with already ripened bread; but stock up on warm clothes if you think to get to the top, because there you will meet a complete winter - snow, ice, cold - and in the middle of summer you can easily freeze your hands and feet. Stock up also on strong boots with strong soles so that they do not wear out on stones, a strong stick with an iron tip and provisions; but the main thing is to stock up on strength and patience, because you will have to tirelessly work with your feet for a whole day, and maybe two. Although the top of the mountain rises only three or four versts, it is still considered a plumb line, and to get to the top, you have to make fifteen or twenty versts of the most difficult path along steep ledges.

Stock up on courage as well, so that you don’t feel dizzy when, having climbed onto another ledge, look down.

But above all, take an experienced guide, because without him you can easily get lost between the rocky peaks of the mountain, in its dark forests, between the countless streams and rivers that roll down from its sides, in its snowy fields and glaciers. Sometimes, perhaps, you can climb such a peak and go into such wilderness, into the middle of impregnable ledges or to the edge of a gaping abyss, that you will not know how to get out.

You need to know the mountain paths well in order to set off in the mountains.

Climbing a high, sky-high mountain is a lot of work; but this work pays off with pleasure. How many diverse vegetation you will meet from the sole to the top! How much diversity in the way of life of people! If the mountain you are climbing lies in a warm climate, then at its foot you will leave lemon and orange groves, above you will meet trees of temperate countries: poplar, beech, chestnut, linden, maple, oak; further on you will find gloomy coniferous forests and deciduous trees North: aspen, birch. Even higher - and the trees are already ceasing, there are even very few flowers and grass - only the alpine rose will accompany you to the very border of eternal snows, and the skinny moss will remind you of polar countries where it constitutes almost the only food reindeer. Higher. - and you will enter the country of eternal snows, although, perhaps, you are several thousand miles from the polar sea.

Down below you have left the noisy, bustling cities; rising higher, they met pretty villages, still surrounded by cultivated fields and fertile gardens; further you will not meet any fields or gardens, but only fat meadows in mountain valleys and admire the beautiful herds; small shepherd villages are leaning against the mountains, so that some houses are molded against the rock, like a bird's nest; on the roofs of the houses, large stones were laid in rows; without this precaution, a storm roaring on the mountains could easily have blown the roof off. Further, you will still find separate huts here and there. mountain dwellers: these are the summer dwellings of the shepherds, left in the winter. Juicy, beautiful grass attracts herds here in summer.

Even higher - and you will no longer meet human dwellings. Tenacious domestic goats are still clinging to the ledges; but a little further and you will come across, perhaps, only small herds of light-footed wild chamois and bloodthirsty eagles; and then you will enter a country where there is neither plant nor animal life.

How good and talkative are the mountain streams, how clear and cold the water is in them! They originate in glaciers and are formed from melting ice, they begin in small, barely noticeable trickles; but then these trickles will gather together - and a noisy fast stream, now wriggling like a silver ribbon, now jumping from ledge to ledge like a waterfall, now hiding in a dark gorge and reappearing into the world, now murmuring over stones, will roll down boldly and quickly until it reaches to a more sloping valley, in the middle of which a calm and decent river will run.

If the storm does not roar in the mountains, then the higher you climb, the quieter the surroundings will be. At the very top, among the eternal snows and ices, where Sun rays, reflecting from the snowy fields, dazzle the eyes, dead silence reigns; unless a stone moved by your foot will make noise and knock on the whole neighborhood.

But suddenly there is a terrible and prolonged roar, repeated by a mountain echo; it seems to you that the mountain is trembling under your feet, and you ask the guide: “What is this?” - “This is an avalanche,” he answers you calmly: a large mass of snow fell off the top and, carrying stones with it, and lower - trees, herds, people and even shepherds' houses, rushed down the mountain ledges. God grant that it does not collapse on some village and bury its houses and inhabitants under it.

Avalanches most often roll down from the mountains in the spring, because the snow that has attacked in the winter melts.

But if, having overcome all these difficulties and fears, you finally get to a high mountain square, where the guide advises you to sit on the stones, have breakfast and rest, you will be quite rewarded.

Although it is quite cold here and every slightest movement tires you, your heart beats fast and your breathing is accelerated, but you somehow feel light and pleasant, and you fully enjoy the majestic picture.

Around you are rocks, snowy glades and glaciers; abysses and gorges are visible everywhere, the peaks of other mountains rise in the distance, now dark, now purple, now pink, now shimmering with silver; and below, for sixty versts, a green, flowering valley opens up, cutting far into the mountains; rivers meandering along it, shining lakes, cities and villages as if in the palm of your hand.

Large herds seem to you like moving dots, and you don’t see people at all. But now, under your feet, everything began to be covered with fog: it was the clouds that were gathering around the mountain; a bright sun shines above you, and below from this fog it may be pouring rain...

Leo Tolstoy "What is the dew on the grass"

When you go to the forest on a sunny summer morning, you can see diamonds in the fields, in the grass. All these diamonds shine and shimmer in the sun in different colors - yellow, red, and blue.

When you come closer and see what it is, you will see that these are drops of dew gathered in triangular leaves of grass and glisten in the sun.

The leaf of this grass inside is shaggy and fluffy, like velvet. And the drops roll on the leaf and do not wet it.

When you inadvertently pick off a leaf with a dewdrop, the drop will roll down like a ball of light, and you will not see how it slips past the stem.

It used to be that you tear off such a cup, slowly bring it to your mouth and drink a dewdrop, and this dewdrop seems to be tastier than any drink.

Konstantin Paustovsky "Collection of Miracles"

Everyone, even the most serious person, not to mention, of course, boys, has his own secret and slightly funny dream. I also had such a dream - be sure to get to Borovoye lake.

It was only twenty kilometers from the village where I lived that summer to the lake.

Everyone tried to dissuade me from going - and the road was boring, and the lake was like a lake, all around there was only forest, dry swamps and lingonberries.

Famous painting!

- Why are you rushing there, to this lake! the garden watchman Semyon was angry. - What didn't you see? What a fussy, grasping people went, Lord! Everything he needs, you see, he has to snatch with his hand, look out with his own eye! What will you see there? One reservoir. And nothing more!

— Have you been there?

- And why did he surrender to me, this lake! I don't have anything else to do, do I? That's where they sit, all my business! Semyon tapped his brown neck with his fist. - On the hump!

But I still went to the lake. Two village boys, Lyonka and Vanya, followed me. Before we had time to go beyond the outskirts, the complete hostility of the characters of Lenka and Vanya was immediately revealed. Lyonka estimated everything that he saw around in rubles.

“Here, look,” he said to me in his booming voice, “the gander is coming.” How much do you think he pulls?

- How do I know!

- Rubles for a hundred, perhaps, it pulls, - Lyonka said dreamily and immediately asked: - But how much will this pine tree pull? Rubles for two hundred? Or all three hundred?

— Accountant! Vanya remarked contemptuously and sniffled. - At the very brains of a dime are pulled, but he asks the price of everything. My eyes would not look at him.

After that, Lyonka and Vanya stopped, and I heard a well-known conversation - a harbinger of a fight. It consisted, as is customary, of only questions and exclamations.

- Whose brains are they pulling on a dime? My?

- Probably not mine!

— You look!

— See for yourself!

- Don't grab it! They did not sew a cap for you!

“Oh, how I wouldn’t push you in my own way!”

- Don't be scared! Don't poke me in the nose!

The fight was short but decisive.

Lyonka picked up his cap, spat, and went, offended, back to the village. I began to shame Vanya.

- Of course! Vanya said, embarrassed. - I got into a heated fight. Everyone fights with him, with Lyonka. He's kinda boring! Give him free rein, he hangs prices on everything, like in a general store. For every spike. And he will certainly bring down the whole forest, chop it for firewood. And I am most afraid of everything in the world when they bring down the forest. Passion as I fear!

- Why so?

— Oxygen from forests. Forests will be cut down, oxygen will become liquid, rotten. And the earth will no longer be able to attract him, to keep him near him. He will fly away to where he is! Vanya pointed to the fresh morning sky. - There will be nothing for a person to breathe. The forester explained to me.

We climbed the izvolok and entered the oak copse. Immediately, red ants began to seize us. They clung to the legs and fell from the branches by the scruff of the neck.

Dozens of ant roads strewn with sand stretched between oaks and junipers. Sometimes such a road passed, as if through a tunnel, under the knotty roots of an oak tree and again rose to the surface. Ant traffic on these roads was continuous.

In one direction, the ants ran empty, and returned with the goods - white grains, dry paws of beetles, dead wasps and hairy caterpillars.

- Bustle! Vanya said. — Like in Moscow. An old man from Moscow comes to this forest for ant eggs. Every year. Takes away in bags. This is the most bird food. And they are good for fishing. The hook needs to be tiny-tiddly!

Behind the oak copse, on the edge, at the edge of the loose sandy road, stood a lopsided cross with a black tin icon. Red, flecked with white, ladybugs crawled along the cross.

A gentle wind blew in your face from the oat fields. Oats rustled, bent, a gray wave ran over them.

Behind the oat field we passed through the village of Polkovo. I noticed a long time ago that almost all regimental peasants differ from the neighboring inhabitants by their high growth.

- Stately people in Polkovo! our Zaborevskys said with envy. — Grenadiers! Drummers!

In Polkovo, we went to rest in the hut of Vasily Lyalin, a tall, handsome old man with a piebald beard. Gray tufts stuck out in disorder in his black shaggy hair.

When we entered the hut to Lyalin, he shouted:

- Keep your heads down! Heads! All of my forehead on the lintel smash! It hurts in Polkovo tall people, but slow-witted - the huts are put on a short stature.

During the conversation with Lyalin, I finally found out why the regimental peasants were so tall.

- Story! Lyalin said. "Do you think we've gone up in the air for nothing?" In vain, even the Kuzka-bug does not live. It also has its purpose.

Vanya laughed.

- You're laughing! Lyalin observed sternly. — Not enough learned yet to laugh. You listen. Was there such a foolish tsar in Russia - Emperor Pavel? Or was not?

“I was,” Vanya said. - We studied.

— Yes, he swam. Adelov made such that we still hiccup. The gentleman was fierce. A soldier at the parade squinted his eyes in the wrong direction - he is now inflamed and begins to thunder: “To Siberia! To hard labor! Three hundred ramrods!” That's what the king was like! Well, such a thing happened - the grenadier regiment did not please him. He shouts: “Step march in the indicated direction for a thousand miles! Campaign! And after a thousand versts to stand forever! And he shows the direction with his finger. Well, the regiment, of course, turned and marched. What will you do! We walked and walked for three months and reached this place. Around the forest is impassable. One hell. They stopped, began to cut huts, knead clay, lay stoves, dig wells. They built a village and called it Polkovo, as a sign that a whole regiment built it and lived in it. Then, of course, liberation came, and the soldiers settled down to this area, and, read it, everyone stayed here. The area, you see, is fertile. There were those soldiers - grenadiers and giants - our ancestors. From them and our growth. If you don't believe me, go to the city, to the museum. They will show you the papers. Everything is written in them. And just think, if they had to walk another two versts and come out to the river, they would have stopped there. So no, they did not dare to disobey the order - they just stopped. People are still surprised. “What are you, they say, regimental, staring into the forest? Didn't you have a place by the river? Terrible, they say, tall, but guesswork in the head, you see, is not enough. Well, explain to them how it was, then they agree. “Against the order, they say, you can’t trample! It is a fact!"

Vasily Lyalin volunteered to accompany us to the forest, show the path to Borovoye Lake. First we passed through a sandy field overgrown with immortelle and wormwood. Then thickets of young pines ran out to meet us. Pine forest met us after the hot fields with silence and coolness. High in the sun's slanting rays, blue jays fluttered as if on fire. Clean puddles stood on the overgrown road, and clouds floated through these blue puddles. It smelled of strawberries, heated stumps. Drops of dew, or yesterday's rain, glittered on the hazel leaves. The cones were falling.

- Great forest! Lyalin sighed. - The wind will blow, and these pines will hum like bells.

Then the pines gave way to birches, and behind them the water glistened.

— Borovoye? I asked.

- Not. Before Borovoye still walk and walk. This is Larino Lake. Let's go, look into the water, look.

The water in Larino Lake was deep and clear to the very bottom. Only near the shore did she tremble a little - there, from under the mosses, a spring poured into the lake. At the bottom lay several dark large trunks. They gleamed with a faint, dark fire as the sun reached them.

“Black oak,” said Lyalin. - Seared, age-old. We pulled one out, but it's hard to work with it. The saw breaks. But if you make a thing - a rolling pin or, say, a rocker - so forever! Heavy wood, sinks in water.

The sun shone in the dark water. Beneath it lay ancient oak trees, as if cast from black steel. And above the water, reflected in it with yellow and purple petals, butterflies flew.

Lyalin led us to a deaf road.

“Go straight ahead,” he pointed, “until you run into msharas, into a dry swamp.” And the path will go along the msharams to the very lake. Just go carefully - there are a lot of pegs.

He said goodbye and left. We went with Vanya along the forest road. The forest grew taller, more mysterious and darker. Gold resin froze in streams on the pines.

At first, the ruts were still visible, long overgrown with grass, but then they disappeared, and the pink heather covered the whole road with a dry, cheerful carpet.

The road led us to a low cliff. Msharas spread out under it - thick birch and aspen undergrowth warmed to the roots. Trees sprouted from deep moss. Small yellow flowers were scattered here and there over the moss, and dry branches with white lichen were lying about.

A narrow path led through the mshary. She walked around high bumps.

At the end of the path, the water shone with a black blue — Borovoye Lake.

We cautiously walked along the msharams. Pegs, sharp as spears, stuck out from under the moss—the remains of birch and aspen trunks. The lingonberry bushes have begun. One cheek of each berry - the one that turned to the south - was completely red, and the other was just beginning to turn pink.

A heavy capercaillie jumped out from behind a bump and ran into the undergrowth, breaking dry wood.

We went to the lake. Grass rose above the waist along its banks. Water splashed in the roots of old trees. A wild duck jumped out from under the roots and ran across the water with a desperate squeak.

The water in Borovoye was black and clean. Islands of white lilies bloomed on the water and smelled sickly. The fish struck and the lilies swayed.

- That's a blessing! Vanya said. Let's live here until our crackers run out.

I agreed. We stayed at the lake for two days. We saw sunsets and twilight and the tangle of plants that appeared before us in the firelight. We heard the calls of wild geese and the sound of night rain.

He walked for a short time, about an hour, and tinkled softly across the lake, as if stretching thin, like cobweb, trembling strings between the black sky and the water.

That's all I wanted to tell.

But since then, I will not believe anyone that there are places on our earth that are boring and do not give any food to either the eye, or hearing, or imagination, or human thought.

Only in this way, exploring some piece of our country, you can understand how good it is and how we are attached with our hearts to each of its paths, springs, and even to the timid squeaking of a forest bird.

Stories about nature in the form of short notes, introduce the surrounding world of plants and animals, the life of the forest and seasonal natural phenomena observed in different time of the year.

Small sketches of each season convey the mood of nature in small works written by the creators of Russian prose. Short stories, sketches and notes are collected on the pages of our site in a small collection of short stories about nature for children and schoolchildren.

Nature in short stories by M. M. Prishvin

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin is an unsurpassed master of the short genre, in his notes he so subtly describes nature in just two or three sentences. Short stories by M. M. Prishvin are sketches about nature, observations of plants and animals, short essays on the life of the forest at different times of the year. From the book "The Seasons" (selected sketches):

Nature in short stories by K. D. Ushinsky

Pedagogical experience, ideas, quotes, which became the basis in the education of a person, were conveyed in his works by Ushinsky Konstantin Dmitrievich. His fairy tales about nature convey the limitless possibilities of the native word, are filled with patriotic feelings for native land, teach good and careful attitude to the environment and nature.

Stories about plants and animals

Tales of the seasons

Nature in short stories by K. G. Paustovsky

An incredible description of nature in its various manifestations, using all the richness of the Russian language dictionary, can be found in short stories by Paustovsky Konstantin Georgievich. In surprisingly light and accessible lines, the author's prose, like the composer's music, comes to life in stories for a brief moment, transferring the reader to the living world of Russian nature.

Nature in short stories by A. N. Tumbasov

Anatoly Nikolaevich Tumbasov's sketches about nature are small essays of each season. Together with the author, take your little trip to wonderful world nature.

Seasons in the stories of Russian writers

Short stories of Russian writers, the lines of which are inseparably united by a feeling of love for their native nature.

Spring

Summer

Autumn

Winter

Retelling a story requires not only memorization of the text, but also thoughtfulness in words, in the content of the story.

Chanterelle bread

blue shadows

quiet snow

clear ice

Zhurka

squirrel memory

forest doctor

white necklace

Belyak

Swamp

Verkhoplavka

talking rook

Hedgehog

golden meadow

blue bast shoes

Observation of a young naturalist

First forest impressions

Attempt at writing

Member of the expedition to the northern regions

The nature of native places has overcome doubts

nature singer

The moral core of M. Prishvin's children's stories

Live pages with sounds and breath

Mikhail Prishvin "Forest Master"

Mikhail Prishvin "Dead Tree"

Mikhail Prishvin "Forest floors"

Mikhail Prishvin "Old Starling"

Mikhail Prishvin "Spider web"

Mikhail Prishvin "Spider web"

Sergey Aksakov "Nest"

Konstantin Paustovsky "Gift"

Ivan Bunin "Birch Forest"

Anton Chekhov "Evening in the steppe"

Ivan Turgenev "Kasyan with a Beautiful Sword"

Konstantin Ushinsky "Mountain Country"

Leo Tolstoy "What is the dew on the grass"

Konstantin Paustovsky "Collection of Miracles"

Nature in short stories by M. M. Prishvin

Nature in short stories by K. D. Ushinsky

Nature in short stories by K. G. Paustovsky

Nature in short stories by A. N. Tumbasov

Seasons in the stories of Russian writers

Spring

Summer

Autumn

Winter

Report a typo

Text to be sent to our editors:

Your comment (optional):