A story about winter and love. Prince from a winter fairy tale. The story of the trees in winter

Winter is a season that physically repels, but mentally attracts. These are the days when the whole world seems to fall asleep.

And at this time, an unknown, attractive and alluring snowy life begins to wake up around us. Everything around resembles an unreal fairy tale that you want to believe in.

Quotes about the winter of Russian poets

In those days when the world is commanded by the snow element, poets take up their work - to create. They inhale the frosty air, drawing inspiration from everything that surrounds them.

"But winters are sometimes cold
The ride is pleasant and easy.
Like a verse without thought in a fashionable song,
The road is smooth in winter.

A.S. Pushkin

"And the white dead kingdom,
Throwing mentally trembling,
I whisper softly: "Thank you,
You give more than they ask."

B.L. Pasternak

"Snowflakes are heavenly salamanders."

M.I. Tsvetaeva

"But our northern summer,
Southern winter caricature.

A.S. Pushkin

"That's how we will bloom
And let's make some noise, like guests of the garden ...
If there are no flowers in the middle of winter,
So there is no need to worry about them."

S.A. Yesenin

Quotes about the winter of Russian writers

In moments when all living things plunged as if into a winter dream, the writers enjoyed peace and quiet. Winter euphoria is an inexpressible feeling. Goosebumps run all over my body, frost pierces from the inside, and there are no thoughts in my head. There is nothing in my head but the songs of the muse.

"Winter is an honest season."

I.A. Brodsky

"You can love winter and carry warmth in yourself, you can prefer summer, remaining a piece of ice."

S. Lukyanenko

"Winter kills life on earth, but spring comes, and all living things will be born again. But it was hard to believe, looking at the ashes of the recently living city, that spring would come for him someday."

E. Dvoretskaya

"When it's cold, people get warmer to each other."

M. Zhvanetsky

"If troubles are not perceived as troubles, then there is no trouble. And winter is not a problem."

O.Robsky

Quotes about the winter of foreign writers

Perhaps not all writers have seen a real winter - Russian. Not everyone could feel the Siberian frosts. Therefore, the views of the masters of the word at this time of the year often diverged. And yet each of them managed to convey their winter mood.

"Winter also brings lazy winds that don't know why go around human bodies when you can walk right through them."

Terry Pratchett

"Coolness and tranquility are quite to my liking. But in winter, with coolness, it turns out to be some bust."

Watari Wataru

"You see ... so many different things happen only in winter, and not in summer, and not in autumn, and not in spring. In winter, all the most terrible, most amazing things happen ...".

Tove Jansson

"There's something treacherous about winter."

V.Hugo

"For a fool, old age is a burden, for an ignoramus it is winter, and for a man of science it is a golden harvest."

Voltaire

Movie Quotes About Winter

We can not always see white snowdrifts outside the window or get better with snowfall on New Year's Eve. But films will always help us in this.

"It's cold in winter for those who don't have warm memories."

From the movie "An Unforgettable Romance"

"Winter on Berk lasts almost the whole year, she holds on with both hands and does not let go. And the only salvation from the cold is those whom you hold close to your heart."

From the movie "How to Train Your Dragon"

"They say that it is so cold here in winter that laughter freezes in the throat and chokes a person to death."

From the movie "Game of Thrones"

"The winter is very long, isn't it?
“It seems like a long time, but it won’t last forever.”

From the cartoon "Bambi"

Quotes about the winter of contemporaries

Why not write if you want. Especially during the fabulous winter time. Create by all means.

"Heat is no better than cold, and vice versa. To grow flowers, warm is better; to skate, cold is better!"

Oleg Roy

"Following a cold winter, a sunny spring always comes; only this law should be remembered in life, and the reverse is preferable to forget."

Leonid Solovyov

“The exact forecast promises: perhaps there will be sun and even spring.
But for some reason, my heart is anxious - maybe I'm just tired of believing.

Winter time in verses is graceful and complacent to the sleeping nature. Poems about winter in the works of Russian poets delight in the severity of the Russian winter, convey the comfort of the folk life of the Russian hut and the life of a peasant in a long frosty time. The poems tell about fairy tales created by the very charm of winter nature.

Poems of Russian poets about winter: charming lines!

Winter in the verses of Russian poets is thoughtful and beckons with splendor, as if the queen of the winter kingdom herself and the mistress of snowstorms and blizzards, fetters and beckons with her beauty and majesty. Nature hid and sleeps, hiding under a snow-white blanket, while winter released the forces of winds and frosts, chaining the entire natural world in icy fetters, like lines of winter poems, bewitched by the beauty and charm of Russian poetry.

Poems about winter are created most often under the impression of nature, frozen in immobility, but not losing its charm. The first snow always causes a storm of emotions, so long-awaited, so clean and snow-white against the background of autumn slush. “Pushkin’s Tatyana” loved this period, admired the white birch and pitied the freezing birds Yesenin, sang the Tyutchev forest bewitched by the cold. Each poet finds something of his own in this time, and therefore poems about winter by different authors often differ in content and emotional content, but remain as charmingly beautiful as frosty patterns on glass.

Pushkin's poems about winter

Winter morning
Frost and sun; wonderful day!
You are still dozing, lovely friend -
It's time, beauty, wake up:
Open eyes closed by bliss
Towards the northern Aurora,
Be the star of the north!
Evening, do you remember, the blizzard was angry,
In the cloudy sky, a haze hovered;
The moon is like a pale spot
Turned yellow through the gloomy clouds,
And you sat sad -
And now ... look out the window:
Under blue skies
splendid carpets,
Shining in the sun, the snow lies;
The transparent forest alone turns black,
And the spruce turns green through the frost,
And the river under the ice glitters.
The whole room amber gleam
Enlightened. Cheerful crackling
The fired oven crackles.
It's nice to think by the couch.
But you know: do not order to the sled
Harness a brown filly?
Gliding through the morning snow
Dear friend, let's run
impatient horse
And visit the empty fields
The forests, recently so dense,
And the shore, dear to me.

***

Winter evening
A storm covers the sky with mist,
Whirlwinds of snow twisting;
Like a beast, she will howl
It will cry like a child
That on a dilapidated roof
Suddenly the straw will rustle,
Like a belated traveler
There will be a knock on our window.
Our ramshackle shack
And sad and dark.
What are you, my old lady,
Silent at the window?
Or howling storms
You, my friend, are tired
Or slumber under the buzz
Your spindle?
Let's drink, good friend
My poor youth
Let's drink from grief; where is the mug?
The heart will be happy.
Sing me a song like a titmouse
She lived quietly across the sea;
Sing me a song like a damsel
She followed the water in the morning.
A storm covers the sky with mist,
Whirlwinds of snow twisting;
Like a beast, she will howl
It will cry like a child.
Let's drink, good friend
My poor youth
Let's drink from grief: where is the mug?
The heart will be happy.

Winter road
Through the wavy mists
The moon is creeping
To sad glades
She pours a sad light.
On the winter road, boring
Troika greyhound runs
Single bell
Tiring noise.
Something is heard native
In the coachman's long songs:
That revelry is remote,
That heartache...
No fire, no black hut...
Wilderness and snow... Meet me
Only miles striped
Come across alone.
Boring, sad ... Tomorrow, Nina,
Tomorrow, returning to my dear,
I'll forget by the fireplace
I look without looking.
Sounding hour hand
He will make his measured circle,
And, removing the boring ones,
Midnight won't separate us.
It's sad, Nina: my path is boring,
Dremlya fell silent my coachman,
The bell is monotonous
Foggy moon face.

***

What a night! Frost crackling,
Not a single cloud in the sky;
Like a sewn canopy, a blue vault
It is full of frequent stars.
Everything is dark in the houses. At the gate
Locks with heavy locks.
Everywhere people rest;
The noise and the shout of the merchant subsided;
Only the yard guard barks
Yes, the ringing chain rattles.
And all of Moscow sleeps peacefully...
***

That year the autumn weather
She stood outside for a long time.
Winter was waiting, nature was waiting,
Snow fell only in January,
On the third night. Waking up early
Tatyana saw in the window
Whitewashed yard in the morning,
Curtains, roofs and fences,
Light patterns on glass
Trees in winter silver
Forty merry in the yard
And softly padded mountains
Winters are a brilliant carpet.
Everything is bright, everything shines around.
***

Winter!.. The peasant, triumphant,
On firewood, updates the path;
His horse, smelling snow,
Trotting somehow;
Reins fluffy exploding,
A remote wagon flies;
The coachman sits on the irradiation
In a sheepskin coat, in a red sash.
Here is a yard boy running,
Planting a bug in a sled,
Transforming himself into a horse;
The scoundrel already froze his finger:
It hurts and it's funny
And his mother threatens him through the window.

Winter pictures are so beautiful, so touching the soul that it is hard not to notice them. And the birds are not visible at all: only black jackdaws sometimes jump along the road near the village. Animals and birds that do not fly away from us to distant lands hide at this time in the forest.

BIRCH
Sergey Yesenin
White birch under my window
Covered with snow, like silver.
On fluffy branches with a snowy border
Tassels of white fringe blossomed.
And there is a birch in sleepy silence,
And snowflakes burn in golden fire.
And the dawn, lazily going around,
Sprinkle the branches with new silver.

Winter evening

Mikhail Isakovsky

Behind the window in the white field -
Twilight, wind, snow…
You are probably sitting at school,
In his bright room.
Winter evening is short,
Leaned over the table
Do you write, do you read?
Whether you think about what.
The day is over - and the classrooms are empty,
Silence in the old house
And you're a little sad
That you are alone today.
Because of the wind, because of the blizzard
Empty all the ways
Friends won't come to you
Spend the evening together.
The blizzard swept up the track, -
It's not easy to get through.
But the fire in your window
Seen very far.

***

winter meeting
Ivan Nikitin

Rain yesterday morning
He knocked on the glass of the windows,
Fog over the ground
I got up with clouds.

Blowed cold in the face
From gloomy skies
And God knows what
The dark forest was crying.

At noon the rain stopped
And that white fluff
On the autumn mud
The snow began to fall.

The night has passed. It's dawn.
There are no clouds anywhere.
The air is light and clean
And the river froze.

In yards and houses
Snow lies in sheets
And shines from the sun
Multicolored fire.

Into the empty space
whitened fields
Looks fun forest
From under black curls.

As if he is happy about something, -
And on the branches of birches
How diamonds burn
Drops of restrained tears.

Hello winter guest!
Please have mercy on us
Sing the songs of the north
Through forests and steppes.

We have a space -
Walk anywhere;
Build bridges across rivers
And lay out the carpets.

We can't get used to
Let your frost crackle:
Our Russian blood
Burning in the cold!

It's like that
Orthodox people:
In the summer, look, the heat -
In a short fur coat goes;

Burning cold smelled -
All the same for him:
Knee-deep in the snow
Says: "Nothing!"

In an open field a blizzard
And - revels, and stirs up, -
Our steppe man
Rides in a sled, groans:

“Well, falcons, well!
Get it out, friends!"
He sits and sings
“Snowballs are not white!”

And do we sometimes
Death is not to be jokingly met,
If we have storms
Does the child get used to it?

When the mother is in the cradle
He puts his son at night,
Under the window for him
The blizzard sings songs.

And rampant bad weather
From an early age he loves
And the hero grows
What is oak under the storms.

Scatter, winter
Until spring golden
Silver by fields
Our Russia is holy!

And will it happen to us
An uninvited guest will come
And for our good
Will start a dispute with us -

You already accept it
On the side of someone else
Prepare an intoxicating feast
Sing a song to the guest;

For his bed
Save white fluff
And fall asleep with a blizzard
His trace in Russia!

Freezing day
Valentin Berestov
Frosty day... But overhead
In the interweaving of branches, in the black mesh,
Flowing down the trunks, down each branch
The blue sky hangs like an avalanche.

And I believe that spring is about to begin.
And weirdly enough, she's already arrived.
And not a single twig will sway
So that the sky does not accidentally collapse.

The creak of footsteps along the white streets...
Athanasius Fet

The creak of footsteps along the white streets, the lights in the distance;
Crystals gleam on the icy walls.
Silver fluff hung from the eyelashes in the eyes,
The silence of the cold night occupies the spirit.
The wind sleeps, and everything goes numb, just to fall asleep;
The clear air itself is shy to die in the cold.

Winter... Impeccable pictures of the winter field. At sunset, it shimmers with pink light, then orange, and finally fawn. The sun sets early, and where it sets, the sky burns with a pale golden light. Then, when it hides, the field turns blue, and this blue slowly darkens. In the sky, one after another, the stars light up.

Enchantress Winter…
Fedor Tyutchev
Enchantress Winter
Bewitched, the forest stands,
And under the snowy fringe,
Motionless, dumb
He shines with a wonderful life.
And he stands, bewitched,
Not dead and not alive
Magically enchanted by sleep
All entangled, all bound
Light downy chain…
Is the winter sun mosque
On him his ray oblique -
Nothing trembles in it
He will flare up and shine
Dazzling beauty.

Winter again
Alexander Tvardovsky
Spinning lightly and clumsily,
The snowflake sat on the glass.
It was snowing thick and white at night -
The room is light from the snow.
A little powdery fluff flying,
And the winter sun rises.
Like every day, fuller and better,
A fuller and better new year...
winter pictures
Aunt walks the puppy.
The puppy is off the leash.
And here at low level flight
Crows fly for a puppy.
Sparkling snow...
What a small thing!
Sadness, where did you go?

snowball
Nikolai Nekrasov
Snow flutters, spins,
It's white outside.
And the puddles turned
In cold glass
Where the finches sang in summer
Today - look! —
Like pink apples
On the branches of snowmen.
The snow is cut by skis,
Like chalk, creaky and dry,
And the red cat catches
Cheerful white flies

Motherland
Ivan Bunin
Under a leaden sky
Gloomy winter day fades,
And there is no end to the pine forests,
And far from the villages.
One mist is milky blue,
Like someone's mild sorrow,
Above this snowy desert
Softens the gloomy distance.

Winter... Among the undulating white surface, black spots stand out sharply in a few places: these are dark cliffs, too steep for snow to linger on them. And so the fallen snow levels everything: both depressions and hills. Streams and waterfalls are shackled by cold, lakes disappear under the snow, abysses are filled up, forests are half hidden by snow.

Hello winter winter!
Georgy Ladonshchikov
Hello winter winter!
Covered us with white snow
And trees and houses.
The light-winged wind whistles -
Hello winter winter!
An intricate trace winds
From meadow to hill.
This is a hare printed -
Hello winter winter!
We put bird feeders
We fill them with food,
And pichugs sing in flocks -
Hello winter winter!

January

Joseph Brodsky
Sheep doze, sows sleep,
huts doze, gardens sleep.
In the sky - crow's crosses,
There are hare tracks in the field.
Rivers are chained, lakes
cast in silver.
Opens up to view
woodlands above the mound.
There the ground is roaring,
There for meat food
wolves roam and roam.
And in a den under a pine
the bear sleeps and licks its paw.
A terrible howl of the wind is heard.
Children skiing
over his head.

Winter
(excerpt)

FROM. Surikov
White snow, fluffy
Spinning in the air
And the earth is quiet
Falling, laying down.

And in the morning with snow
The field is white
Like a veil
All dressed him up.

Dark forest with a hat
Covered up wonderful
And fell asleep under her
Strong, unshakable...

God's days are short
The sun shines a little
Here come the frosts -
And winter has come...

Blizzard

Ivan Bunin
At night in the fields, to the tunes of a snowstorm,
Dozing, swaying, birch and spruce ...
The moon shines between the clouds over the field -
A pale shadow runs and melts...
It seems to me at night: between white birches
Frost wanders in the misty radiance.

At night in a hut, to the tunes of a snowstorm,
The creak of the cradle quietly spreads ...
Months of light in the darkness are silvering -
It flows through the frozen glass on the benches.
It seems to me at night: between the boughs of birches
Frost looks into the silent huts.

Dead field, steppe road!
Blizzard sweeps you at night,
Your villages are sleeping to the songs of the blizzard,
Lonely fir trees slumber in the snow...
It seems to me at night: do not steppe around -
Frost wanders on a deaf graveyard ...

A. Fet

Just yesterday, in the sun,
The last forest trembled with a leaf,
And winter, lush green,
She lay on a velvet carpet.

Looking haughtily, as it used to be,
On the victims of cold and sleep,
Didn't change anything
Invincible pine.

Summer suddenly disappeared today;
White, lifeless circle,
Earth and sky - all dressed up
Some dull silver.

Fields without herds, forests are dull,
No meager leaves, no grass.
I don't recognize the growing power
In the diamond ghosts of the foliage.

As if in a gray puff of smoke
From the kingdom of cereals by the will of the fairies
Moved incomprehensibly
We are in the kingdom of rock crystals.

Jack Frost
(excerpt)

N. Nekrasov
It is not the wind that rages over the forest,
Streams did not run from the mountains,
Frost-voivode patrol
Bypasses his possessions,

Looks - good blizzards
Forest paths brought
And are there any cracks, cracks,
Is there any bare ground anywhere?

Are the tops of the pines fluffy,
Is the pattern on oak trees beautiful?
And are the ice floes tightly bound
In great and small waters?

Walks - walks through the trees,
Cracking on frozen water
And the bright sun plays
In his shaggy beard...
Climbing onto a large pine tree,
Hits the branches with a club
And I delete myself,
Boastful song sings:
"Snowstorms, snows and fogs
Always submissive to frost
I'll go to the seas-oceans -
I will build palaces of ice.
Conceived - the rivers are big
For a long time I will hide under oppression,
I will build bridges of ice
Which the people will not build.
Where fast, noisy waters
Recently flowed freely -
Pedestrians passed today
Convoys with goods passed ...
Rich man, I don’t count the treasury
And everything does not lack goodness;
I'm taking away my kingdom
In diamonds, pearls, silver ... "

Winter... When it becomes completely dark, the sky seems black, dotted like golden sparks, and the earth - dark blue. If the moon rises, the field is as if covered with a veil of bluish silver.

Winter night
Boris Pasternak
Melo, melo all over the earth
To all limits.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
Like a swarm of midges in summer
Flying into the flame
Flakes flew from the yard
to the window frame.
Snowstorm sculpted on glass
Circles and arrows.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
On the illuminated ceiling
The shadows lay
Crossed arms, crossed legs,
Crossing fates.
And two shoes fell
With a knock on the floor.
And wax with tears from the night light
Drip on the dress.
And everything was lost in the snow haze
Gray and white.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
The candle blew from the corner,
And the heat of temptation
Raised like an angel two wings
Crosswise.
Melo all month in February,
And every now and then
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.

One can only be surprised at the variety of poetic images in the poems of Russian poets about winter. In nature, at this time, two colors remain - black and white, but the imagery of the poetic word fills each work with such a variety of tones and halftones that blue glare on the snow, and sunsets in a pink haze, and the gold of a sunbeam in the air ringing from frost are born.

A fairy tale is born, the best time for which is long winter evenings...

Poems about winter are distinguished by the clarity of the images; as a rule, a rhythmic pattern is clearly visible in them, there are no superfluous layers. They are similar to this season itself, so simple, but for all its coldness, so attractive and expected.

Aksakov S.T.

In 1813, from St. Nicholas Day itself (Nikolin's Day - a church holiday celebrated on December 6 according to the old style), bitter December frosts set in, especially from winter turns, when, according to popular expression, the sun went to summer, and winter to frost. The cold grew every day, and on December 29, the mercury froze and sank into a glass ball.

The bird froze on the fly and fell to the ground already stiff. The water thrown up from the glass returned in icy splashes and icicles, but there was very little snow, only an inch, and the bare ground froze three-quarters of an arshin.

Burying poles for the construction of the Riga barn, the peasants said that they would not remember when the ground would freeze so deeply, and hoped for a rich harvest of winter crops next year.

The air was dry, thin, burning, piercing, and many people fell ill from severe colds and inflammations; the sun rose and lay down with fiery ears, and the moon walked across the sky, accompanied by cruciform rays; the wind had fallen completely, and whole heaps of bread remained unwinned, so that there was nowhere to go with them.

With difficulty they pierced ice-holes in the pond with picks and axes; the ice was more than an arshin thick, and when they reached the water, it, compressed by a heavy, icy crust, beat like from a fountain, and then it only calmed down when it flooded the hole wide, so that to clean it it was necessary to pave the walkways ...

... The view of winter nature was magnificent. Frost squeezed moisture out of tree branches and trunks, and bushes and trees, even reeds and tall grasses, were covered with brilliant hoarfrost, over which the sun's rays glided harmlessly, showering them only with the cold brilliance of diamond fires.

Red, clear and quiet were the short winter days, like two drops of water one to the other, and somehow sadly, restlessly became in the soul, and the people became depressed.

Diseases, windlessness, lack of snow, and ahead of fodder for livestock. How not to get discouraged here? Everyone prayed for snow, as in summer for rain, and then, finally, the pigtails went across the sky, the frost began to give in, the clarity of the blue sky faded, the west wind pulled, and a plump cloud, imperceptibly advancing, covered the horizon from all sides.

As if having done its job, the wind died down again, and the blessed snow began to fall directly, slowly, in large patches to the ground.

The peasants joyfully looked at the fluffy snowflakes fluttering in the air, which, at first fluttering and spinning, fell to the ground.

The snow began to fall from the village early dinner, it fell incessantly, thicker and stronger from hour to hour.

I have always loved to watch the silent fall or fall of snow. In order to fully enjoy this picture, I went out into the field, and a wonderful sight presented itself to my eyes: all the boundless space around me presented the appearance of a snowy stream, as if the heavens had opened up, scattered with snow fluff and filled the whole air with movement and amazing silence.

The long winter twilight was setting in; falling snow began to cover all objects and clothed the earth with white darkness ...

I returned home, but not to the stuffy room, but to the garden, and walked with pleasure along the paths, showered with snow flakes. Lights lit up in peasant huts, and pale rays lay across the street; objects mingled, drowned in the darkened air.

I entered the house, but even there I stood for a long time at the window, stood until it was no longer possible to distinguish the falling snowflakes ...

“What powder will be tomorrow! I thought. - If the snow stops falling by morning, where is the malik (Malik is a hare footprint in the snow) - there is the hare ... ”And hunting worries and dreams took possession of my imagination. I especially liked to follow the Rusaks, of whom there were many in the mountains and ravines, near the grain peasant humens.

In the evening I prepared all the hunting supplies and shells; several times he ran out to see if it was snowing, and, making sure that it was still falling, just as hard and quietly, just as evenly spreading the ground, went to bed with pleasant hopes.

The winter night is long, and especially in the village, where they go to bed early: you will lie on your sides, waiting for the white day. I always woke up two hours before dawn and loved to meet the winter dawn without a candle. That day I woke up even earlier and now went to find out what was going on in the yard.

There was complete silence outside. The air was soft, and despite the twelve-degree frost, I felt warm. Snow clouds rolled in, and only occasionally some belated snowflakes fell on my face.

In the village, life has long woken up; in all the huts lights shone and stoves were heated, and on the threshing floors, by the light of flaming straw, bread was threshed. The rumble of speeches and the sound of flails from nearby barns reached my ears.

I stared, listened, and did not soon return to my warm room. I sat down opposite the window to the east and waited for the light; for a long time it was impossible to notice any change. Finally, a peculiar whiteness appeared in the windows, the tiled stove turned white, and a bookcase with books, which until then could not be distinguished, appeared against the wall.

In another room, the door to which was open, the stove was already heating. Buzzing and crackling and slapping the shutter, it illuminated the door and half of the upper room with some kind of cheerful, joyful and hospitable light.

But the white day came into its own, and the lighting from the heating stove gradually disappeared. How good, how sweet it was to the soul! Calm, quiet and light! Some kind of vague, full of bliss, warm dreams filled the soul ...

An excerpt from the essay "Buran" 1856

Aksakov S.T.

A snowy white cloud, huge as the sky, covered the entire horizon, and the last light of the red, burnt evening dawn was quickly covered with a thick veil. Suddenly the night came ... the storm came with all its fury, with all its horrors. The desert wind blew up in the open, blew up the snowy steppes like swan fluff, threw them up to the sky ... Everything was dressed in white darkness, impenetrable, like the darkness of the darkest autumn night! Everything merged, everything mixed up: the earth, the air, the sky turned into an abyss of boiling snowy dust, which blinded the eyes, took the breath, roared, whistled, howled, moaned, beat, ruffled, twirled from all sides, from above and below, twisted around like a kite and strangled everything he came across.

The heart drops in the most intimidating person, the blood freezes, stops from fear, and not from cold, because the cold during snowstorms is significantly reduced. So terrible is the sight of the disturbance of the winter northern nature. A person loses his memory, presence of mind, goes crazy ... and this is the reason for the death of many unfortunate victims.

For a long time our convoy dragged with its twenty-pound wagons. The road was drifting, the horses stumbled incessantly. Most of the people walked, stuck knee-deep in the snow; finally, everyone was exhausted; many horses have arrived. The old man saw this, and although his sternness, which was the most difficult of all, for he was the first to lay the trail, still cheerfully pulled out his legs, the old man stopped the convoy. “Friends,” he said, calling all the peasants to him, “there is nothing to do. We must surrender to the will of God; have to spend the night here. Let's make wagons and unharnessed horses together, in a circle. We will tie the shafts and raise them up, wrap them in felt mats, sit under them, as if under a hut, and we will begin to wait for the light of God and good people. Maybe we won’t all freeze!”

The advice was strange and terrible; but it contained the only means of salvation. Unfortunately, there were young, inexperienced people in the convoy. One of them, whose horse stuck less than the others, did not want to obey the old man. “Come on, grandpa! - he said. - Serko something you have become, so are we to die with you? you've already lived in the world, it's all the same to you; but we still want to live. Seven versts to the umet, there will be no more. Let's go guys! Let grandfather stay with those whose horses have completely become. Tomorrow, God willing, we'll be alive, we'll come back here and dig them up." In vain did the old man speak, in vain did he prove that he was weary less than the others; In vain did Petrovich and two more of the peasants support him: the six others on twelve carts set off further.

The storm raged from hour to hour. It raged all night and all the next day, so there was no ride. Deep ravines turned into high mounds... Finally, the excitement of the snowy ocean began to subside little by little, which continues even then, when the sky is already shining with a cloudless blue. Another night passed. The violent wind died down, the snows subsided. The steppes presented the appearance of a stormy sea, suddenly frozen over ... The sun rolled out into a clear sky; its rays played on the wavy snows. The wagon trains that had waited out the storm and all sorts of passers-by set off.

Winter came. Great time of the year. Houses and trees are covered with snow, everywhere there are large snowdrifts, fluffy and soft, like cotton candy, and the eyes are hurt by the crystal whiteness of the city.

From the very morning, some new smell, long forgotten, stings my nose. This is the smell of childhood, when we were dressed in ten blouses like cabbages, but we still managed to get wet to the skin. This is how winter comes for me.

It's almost evening, the most beautiful time of the day, when you have already finished all your vain business, and it's not time to sleep yet. You walk in the park and hide your frost-red nose in a warm scarf. The main thing is not to rush, because all the magic is revealed to the patient, who live in the moment and know the taste of real happiness. At the frantic pace of the city, we strive for a distant, unrealizable dream, but at the end of life, we have only the pursuit behind us. We want to earn a lot of money, get a promotion at work, or just work hard all day to survive. No one takes risks, does not try to change something and lives his life according to a pattern, without filling it with meaning.

That's why I live in the moment. That short walk through the winter forest, which is not poisoned by exhaust gases and not touched by the disastrous pace of the city. After school, it's nice to take a walk in the fresh air, cheer up and enjoy your favorite music. Green pines stand on the sides of the alley and wave their branches - giants in the light breeze.

You turn off the main road, walk along a narrow path, and freshly fallen snow crunches pleasantly under your feet. Cheeks sting from frost, and snowflakes slowly float in the air and sit on a hat, hair and eyelashes. The last rays of the warm gentle sun illuminate the sunset sky, clear and transparent, like a veil thrown over the face of a young girl. Trees stand in white fur coats, and only occasionally a sloppy squirrel touches a light cover of branches. And suddenly ... The forest is painted with all the colors of the rainbow, as if little gnomes scattered sapphires, rubies and diamonds throughout the forest. It seems that the walk has dragged on, and lanterns and garlands have already lit up all over the city.

You come home and run as fast as you can to the kitchen to put the kettle on to warm up faster. After all, the Russian winter, although beautiful, is frosty and terribly capricious. Sometimes you don’t see snow for three months, and sometimes it’s so cold that it gets to the very bones, you can hardly touch it with your feet, the wind covers your whole face with a cold flame, and your hair and scarf are covered with white frost.

But still, it is impossible not to love this time of year. Winter is beautiful with its inaccessible beauty, which is not easy to see. She is beautiful with her sharp temper, causticity and some slightly sad look. Winter, like a white-faced beauty, looks away, hides her face behind a veil of snowstorms and blizzards, and freezes her with her arrogance. But it is worth taking a closer look, waiting, saying the right word, and all the hidden beauty opens before you, and you see a snow-white pattern on a light cotton dress, sky-blue eyes, a slight blush on your cheeks and a gentle smile of a sweet young lady.

Here it is, the Russian winter. But everything was left on the street, and now you are already at home, in warm socks and with a plate of cookies. You pour hot fragrant tea and make yourself comfortable in a chair. Such a sweet smell emanates from this drink that it is impossible to resist, and it will captivate you, slowly spreading through the body, relaxing and giving strength for new achievements. At this time, you remember your day, everything good and bad that happened to you, put your thoughts and feelings in order. Enjoying every sip of tea for a long time, I don’t notice that it’s time to sit down for lessons ...

It's already eight o'clock. Snowflakes are quietly falling outside the window, and a blizzard is playing some old melody. It's time to watch a movie or read a few chapters of a new book. It's nice to immerse yourself in the lost world of Doyle's Canon or travel through a distant galaxy. You cry, laugh with the heroes, go through all the trials with them, worry about their falls, rejoice in their ups and new victories. With the last lines of the book, with the last minutes of the film, a slight wave of sadness covers you, because you are too in love with this story to part with it. And you sit in a slight daze and think about the words that have sunk into your soul, helped to change your thoughts.

And so you put the book on the shelf, turn off the movie and turn on the music. I will never stop talking about my eternal love for melodies, the words that I scroll through my head. And the evening is the time to completely dissolve in songs about love, life and happiness. Headphones in your ears, and you are there, on the sea, so blue that you can drown in these highlights ... in the snowy Alps, overlooking the taiga, where there is a hunting lodge near a crystal lake ... Perhaps you are in a small film with the kidnapping of a princess and a handsome prince … It all depends on what you listen to. You can become a dancer, a singer or even an actor; and you have nothing to be ashamed of, because in this world only you and the music that lives in you, flows through your veins and gives impulses in your head, fills your body with movement. Everyone has different tastes, but there is not a single person who could live without music. Outside the window lies snow and the wind howls, but you are warm from the music that covers you like a blanket. A dark room where you dance, sing and feel happy.

It's time to plunge into the world of dreams, so that tomorrow you can enjoy another pleasant evening, a winter evening that will bring new adventures in the history of your life, new feelings and emotions and unique moments of happiness and sadness that you will remember with tears in your eyes.

These stories will inform children about such a season as winter, tell about the beauty of this season, about seasonal changes in nature, about the New Year and all winter holidays.

A story about winter "The Book of Winter"

Snow covered the whole earth with a white even layer. Fields and forest clearings are now like the smooth blank pages of some gigantic book. And whoever passes through them, everyone will sign: "There was such and such."

It snows during the day. When it's over, the pages are clean. You will come in the morning - the white pages are covered with many mysterious icons, dashes, dots, commas. So, at night there were different forest inhabitants here, walking, jumping, doing something.

Who was? What have you been doing?

We must quickly make out the incomprehensible signs, read the mysterious letters. It will snow again, and then, as if someone had turned the page, again there is only clean, smooth white paper in front of my eyes.

A story about winter "New galoshes"

The real winter has come. The road stretched across the ice across the river. Frost drew whatever he wanted on the panes. And the streets were covered in deep snow.

“Tanyushka, dress properly,” Grandma said, “it’s not summer now.”

And she brought her a winter coat with a fur collar and a knitted woolen scarf from the closet. A few days later, Tanya's mother brought galoshes from the city for felt boots. The galoshes were new and shiny. If you run your finger over them, they will creak and sing! And when Tanya went out into the street, her footprints were printed in the snow, like gingerbread. Alyonka admired Tanya's galoshes, even touched them with her hand.

— What new! - she said.

Tanya looked at Alyonka, thought.

- Well, you want, let's share? - she said. - One galosh for you and one for me...

Alyona laughed.

- Lets do it!

But she looked at her boots and said:

- Yes, it won’t fit me - the boots are very large. Look at their noses!

Girlfriends walked down the street: what to play? Alyonka said:

- Let's go to the pond, let's ride on the ice!

“It’s good on the pond,” Tanya said, “just make a hole there.”

“So what?

“But my grandmother didn’t tell me to go to the ice-hole.”

Alyonka looked back at Tanya's hut:

- Your hut is over there, and the pond is over there. Grandma will see something, right?

Tanya and Alyonka ran to the pond, skated on the ice. And they returned home - they did not say anything to their grandmother.

But the grandmother went to the pond for water, returned and said:

- Tatyanka! And you still ran to the hole again?

Tanya rolled her eyes at her grandmother:

“But how did you see it, grandma?”

“I didn’t see you, but I saw your footprints,” said the grandmother. - Who else has such new galoshes? Oh, you don't listen, Tanya, to your grandmother!

Tanya lowered her eyes, paused, thought, and then said:

“Grandma, I won’t disobey any more!”

A story about winter "Forest in winter".

Can frost kill a tree?

Of course it can.

If the tree freezes through and through, to the very core, it will die. In especially severe winters with little snow, many trees perish in our country, mostly young ones. All the trees would have perished if each tree hadn’t cunningly to keep warm in itself, not to allow frost deep inside itself.

Feeding, growing, producing offspring - all this requires a large expenditure of strength, energy, a large expenditure of one's heat. And now the trees, having gathered strength over the summer, refuse to eat by winter, stop eating, stop growing, do not spend energy on reproduction. They become inactive, fall into a deep sleep.

The leaves exhale a lot of heat, down with the leaves for the winter! Trees throw them off themselves, refuse them in order to keep the warmth necessary for life. And by the way, the leaves thrown from the branches, rotting on the ground, themselves give warmth and protect the delicate roots of trees from freezing.

Little of! Each tree has a shell that protects the living flesh of the plant from frost. All summer, every year, trees lay porous cork tissue under the skin of their trunk and branches - a dead layer. The cork does not let water or air through. The air stagnates in its pores and does not allow heat to radiate from the living body of the tree. The older the tree, the thicker the cork layer in it, which is why old, thick trees tolerate cold better than young trees with thin stems and branches.

Little and cork shell. If the severe frost manages to break through under it, it will meet reliable chemical defenses in the living body of the plant. By winter, various salts and starch, converted into sugar, are deposited in the sap of trees. A solution of salts and sugar is very cold-resistant.

But the best protection against frost is a fluffy snow blanket. It is known that caring gardeners deliberately bend chilly young fruit trees to the ground and throw snow at them: this way they are warmer. In snowy winters, snow, like a duvet, covers the forest, and even then the forest is not afraid of any cold.

No, no matter how severe the frost, it will not kill our northern forest!

Our Prince Bova will stand against all storms and snowstorms.

A story about winter "Winter night".

Night has come in the forest.

Frost taps on the trunks and branches of thick trees, light silver hoarfrost falls in flakes. In the dark high sky, bright winter stars visibly scattered.

Quietly, silently in the winter forest and in the forest snowy glades.

But even on frosty winter nights, the hidden life in the forest continues. Here a frozen branch crunched and broke - it ran under the trees, gently bouncing, a white hare. Then something hooted and suddenly terribly laughed: somewhere an owl screamed. The wolves howled and fell silent.

On the diamond tablecloth of snow, leaving patterns of traces, light caresses run, ferrets hunt mice, owls silently fly over snowdrifts.