Read interesting stories about nature. Mikhail Prishvin. Stories for children about nature. Mikhail Prishvin "Squirrel Memory"

To portray bright world nature for the youngest readers, many writers turned to such a genre of literature as a fairy tale. Even in many folk tales, the main actors natural phenomena, forest, frost, snow, water, plants act. These Russian fairy tales about nature are very fascinating and informative, they talk about the change of seasons, the sun, the moon, various animals. It is worth recalling the most famous of them: "The winter hut of animals", "Sister Chanterelle and Gray wolf", "Mitten", "Teremok", "Kolobok". Tales about nature were also composed by many Russians and it is worth noting such authors as K. Paustovsky, K. Ushinsky, V. Bianki, D. Mamin-Sibiryak, M. Prishvin, N. Sladkov, I. Sokolov-Mikitov, E. Permyak Fairy tales about nature teach children to love the world around them, to be attentive and observant.

The magic of the surrounding world in the fairy tales of D. Ushinsky

The Russian writer D. Ushinsky, like a talented artist, wrote fairy tales about natural phenomena, different seasons. Children from these small works will learn about how the stream rustles, clouds float and birds sing. The most famous tales of the writer: "The Raven and the Magpie", "Woodpecker", "Goose and Crane", "Horse", "Bishka", "Wind and Sun", as well as a huge number of stories. Ushinsky skillfully uses animals and nature to reveal to young readers such concepts as greed, nobility, betrayal, stubbornness, cunning. These fairy tales are very kind, they are recommended to be read to children before going to bed. Ushinsky's books are very well illustrated.

Creations by D. Mamin-Sibiryak for children

Man and nature is a very urgent problem for modern world. Mamin-Sibiryak devoted many works to this topic, but the collection "Alyonushka's Tales" should be especially singled out. The writer himself raised and cared for a sick daughter, and this book was intended for her. interesting collection. In these fairy tales, children will get acquainted with Komar Komarovich, Ersh Ershovich, Shaggy Misha, Brave Hare. From these entertaining works, children learn about the life of animals, insects, birds, fish, plants. Since childhood, almost everyone has been familiar with a very touching cartoon filmed based on the fairy tale of the same name by Mamin-Sibiryak "The Gray Neck".

M. Prishvin and nature

Short tales about the nature of Prishvin are very kind and fascinating, they tell about habits forest dwellers about the grandeur and beauty of their native places. Little readers will learn about the rustle of leaves, forest smells, the murmur of a stream. All these stories end well, evoke in readers a feeling of empathy for the smaller brothers and a desire to help them. The most famous stories: "Pantry of the sun", "Khromka", "Hedgehog".

Tales of V. Bianchi

Russian fairy tales and stories about plants and animals are presented by another wonderful writer - Vitaly Bianchi. His fairy tales teach children to unravel the mysteries of the life of birds and animals. Many of them are intended for the youngest readers: "The Fox and the Mouse", "Cuckoo", "Golden Heart", "Orange Neck", "First Hunt" and many others. Bianchi knew how to observe the life of nature through the eyes of children. Some of his tales about nature are endowed with tragedy or humor, they contain lyrical meditation and poetry.

Forest fairy tales by Nikolai Sladkov

Nikolai Ivanovich Sladkov wrote more than 60, he was also the author of the radio program "News from the Forest". The heroes of his books are kind, funny little animals. Each story is very sweet and kind, tells about funny habits and Little readers will learn from them that animals can also worry and grieve, as they store food for the winter. Sladkov's favorite fairy tales: "Forest Rustles", "Badger and Bear", "Polite Jackdaw", "Hare Dance", "Desperate Hare".

Pantry of fairy tales by E. Permyak

Fairy tales about nature were composed by the famous playwright and writer Yevgeny Andreevich Permyak. They are representatives of the golden fund. These small works teach children to be hardworking, honest, responsible, to believe in themselves and their strengths. It is necessary to single out the most famous tales of Yevgeny Andreevich: "Birch Grove", "Currant", "How Fire Married Water", "The First Fish", "About the Hurried Tit and the Patient Tit", "Ugly Christmas Tree". Permyak's books were very colorfully illustrated by the most famous Russian artists.

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Additions from the author.

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Registration number 0204264 issued for the work:

Story.
Early in the morning, jumping out on the porch, a little boy already squinted from the yellow and bright light of the solar circle, which rose above the nearby forest. The village house stood on the edge of the village in the middle of a dense forest. Immediately beyond the vegetable gardens, this forest stretched for many kilometers to the east! And right behind the vegetable gardens, tall birch trees turned into a tall pine forest.
In the yard, clucking, a rooster paced importantly, guarding the hens swarming around the wattle fence: they tore up the ground with sparse grass, looking for worms.
The boy rubbed his watery eyes and looked out into the sunny morning with a clear blue sky and a slight sound of the forest coming from the side of the yard.
Behind a low wattle fence was a garden and vegetable garden with three beds of cucumbers and two beds of tomatoes. The beds were watered by the grandmother. Wattle - this, a small fence in the yard, the grandmother made recently with the boy, and now he stood out beautifully, pleasantly pleasing to the eye. The boy remembered how they went together to the ravines, far beyond the village, which were flooded with water in the spring. In summer, the ravines dried up, leaving small bogs with water, along the banks of which numerous willow bushes grew: willows. Grandmother chopped willow branches, and the boy put them in a large two-wheeled cart. Branches, the boy cleared of leaves and folded only long rods. They brought these rods to the yard, where there was already a frame of posts and transverse bars. Then they, together with their grandmother, pushed the rods between the bars, and the wattle fence was built! It was all fun, new and fun! The long ends of the rods stuck up at first, and lower and higher, like the uncut hair on the boy's head, which he saw in the mirror in the morning: disheveled. And when my grandmother cut them evenly, the wattle fence began to look beautiful.
From the high porch (and in childhood everything seems big: when the trees were big - there is such a film) the whole yard was visible to the boy. And everything seemed beautiful, the wattle fence and the grandmother with the watering can in the garden; and motley hens at the wattle fence. both important and handsome rooster: yellow collar, white feathers and colored, red and black feathers of a large tail attracted the boy's attention very much. And most importantly - a large and red comb on his head swayed very interestingly, when, clucking, the rooster tossed his head! And the boy wanted to look closer at this natural beauty, to touch .... He quickly descended the three wide steps of the porch and merrily ran up to a flock of hens with a rooster. But here is a surprise: the rooster was not afraid, as the hens did, scattering in all directions to their heels. The rooster suddenly clucked loudly, screamed and jumped up. It flapped its wings and swooped down on the boy, pecking him right on the tip of his nose. Flying back, the rooster prepared to attack once again, but the boy ran, and tears gushed from his eyes. He cried loudly and shouted in his thin voice: “Grandma-ah!”. Because of the tears, the boy did not see the direction where he was running, and did not look at his feet. He ran along the wattle fence to the gate to the garden, near which stood a rake left by his grandmother. The rooster also cackled quite loudly, chasing after the boy. And in this turmoil, the boy stepped on a rake: a stick from a rake hit the boy on the side of the head and the boy fell in tears and crying, calling out to his grandmother. And the grandmother was already running, throwing her watering can between the beds. “Sashenka, Sashenka!...” - and sees a picture: her Sashenka is lying on the grass, a rake is lying on him and a rooster has perched on this rake, ready to peck at the “defeated enemy”. “Shoosh, nasty, what have you done here!” - Grandmother raised Sashenka, brushed off his shirt and began to calm him down. And the cock was not going to retreat! - he flew a little to the side and was already preparing to attack his grandmother. But the grandmother picked up the fallen rake and threatened the brave rooster with them. Here he, probably already frightened, ran at a run to the other corner of the yard to the barn and the barn.
So Sasha got a scratch on his nose and a big bump on the side of his forehead.
But the sunny morning, calling to the street, suddenly, too, grew gloomy. They smeared the boy's nose with brilliant green and sealed the peeled place with a piece of paper. The bump on his forehead was also covered with brilliant green and sparkled in the window, where the boy was sitting, looking into the yard, how the grandmother goes about her business - now to the barn, then to the barn, under the shed. Grandmother walked around the same hens, and the rooster spun next to her and did not even think of attacking her. “Why doesn't he love me?” the boy thought, still afraid of this “evil beast”. Outside the window, the weather deteriorated, maybe she felt the boy's resentment, which was planted in his soul. He didn't cry for long after his grandmother brought him home. But sitting by the window, pouting his lips sternly, he was "offended", and this resentment spread to the whole world.
The sun suddenly disappeared behind a cloud, and more and more clouds covered the blue sky. They came from the East and soon brought rain. Everything in the yard became dull and dark, as in the evening - the grass stood out with dark spots, it no longer seemed green. Under the rapidly intensifying rain, the grandmother also ran from the barn to the porch with a bucket. She milked the cow. And the rain charged so hard that behind its jets, which covered the whole view outside the window with a veil, one could not see the garden, then, even the wattle fence could hardly be guessed behind the streams of rain: a real downpour began! The boy was even happy about something: “That's right! Let be! That's right!" - thought the little boy, still not understanding to whom and for what he was taking revenge. But he knew that nature heard him and avenged his offense - that he did not take a walk in the yard today because of the incident with the rooster, because he was hurt and offended ....
And nature, as if really in retaliation to someone, charged with a long torrential rain until the evening.
When the boy and his grandmother drank tea and biscuits before going to bed, the rain was still noisy outside. And when the boy was already going to bed, it was still raining, his noise was heard outside the window, under which stood the boy's bed. Under this rustle of rain jets, the boy fell asleep. The boy also woke up from the sound of water outside the window - the rain did not stop. The torrential downpour continued. Looking out the window, the boy saw that water was running through the yard - as if a whole river was flowing through the yard under the gate to the street. He quickly jumped up and ran to another window overlooking the street: and there he saw streams of water. The water flowed like a huge river along the wide street from house to house, and streams of heavy rain kept adding and pouring water from heaven! (Such a downpour lasted three days in 1967, but is not mentioned anywhere in the media, so I cannot refer to confirm the fact). For three days the boy could not leave the house, for three days it rained from Heaven in huge streams. Many houses in the village were flooded - those that were closer to the river. It's horrible. Involuntarily thought about Deluge, they read about the flood with their grandmother in the Bible. And the grandmother told him and read to him, and the boy experienced this event of history, in an almost visible way, felt in his soul that everything was so. There was Noah, whom God warned, and there was a downpour, and water poured from Heaven.
Already flowed down the street deep river, the boy could see it clearly - water poured from everywhere, their yard was flooded, and they were sitting locked in the house with their grandmother, like Noah in that Ark ....
Then the rain stopped. But the impressions from him remained in the soul of the boy for a long time. And no one could dissuade him that there was no Flood. That Biblical history is a myth! Faith in the Holy Scriptures sunk into the subconscious of the boy in that early childhood! And at school, no matter how they taught Darwin's theory and evolution in biology, the boy knew and believed that there is a God and the whole world: God created grass, animals, and man!
Nature itself gave this faith to the boy, by its coincidence of events.
End.
Additions from the author.
At the age of 6, the boy memorized the prayer "Our Father ...", and by reading his grandmother, he knew all the events of the story from the Holy Scriptures. At school, he was not even accepted into the "October" because he always prayed and went to Church with his grandmother on Sundays .... Then he hid his prayers from the guys, but he was not accepted into the “pioneers” either, and he was a kind of “outcast” at school. He had other interests, he read other books - the lives of the saints and other religious ones. Although he seemed to study well at school, but Faith in God lurked in his soul ....
End.

Mikhail Prishvin "My Motherland" (From childhood memories)

My mother got up early, before the sun. Once I also got up before the sun, in order to place snares on quails at dawn. My mother treated me to tea with milk. The milk was boiled in clay pot and from above it was always covered with a ruddy foam, and under this foam it was unusually tasty, and tea from it became excellent.

This treat decided my life in good side: I started getting up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little, I got so used to this morning rising that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then I got up early in the city, and now I always write early, when the whole animal and vegetable world awakens and also begins to work in its own way. And often, often I think: what if we rose like this for our work with the sun! How much health, joy, life and happiness would then come to people!

After tea, I went hunting for quails, starlings, nightingales, grasshoppers, turtledoves, butterflies. I didn’t have a gun then, and even now a gun is not necessary in my hunting.

My hunting was then and now - in the finds. It was necessary to find in nature something that I had not yet seen, and maybe no one else had ever met with this in their life ...

My farm was large, the paths were countless.

My young friends! We are the masters of our nature, and for us it is the pantry of the sun with the great treasures of life. Not only do these treasures need to be protected - they must be opened and shown.

Needed for fish pure water Let's protect our waters.

There are various valuable animals in the forests, steppes, mountains - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains.

Fish - water, bird - air, beast - forest, steppe, mountains. And a man needs a home. And to protect nature means to protect the homeland.

Mikhail Prishvin "Hot Hour"

It is melting in the fields, but in the forest there is still snow untouched by dense pillows on the ground and on the branches of trees, and the trees are in snow captivity. Thin trunks crouched to the ground, froze and are waiting any hour for release. At last this hot hour comes, the happiest for the motionless trees and the most terrible for animals and birds.

A hot hour has come, the snow is imperceptibly melting, and in complete forest silence, as if by itself, a spruce branch moves and sways. And just under this tree, covered with its wide branches, a hare is sleeping. In fear, he gets up and listens: the twig cannot move by itself. The hare was scared, and then before his eyes another, third branch moved and, freed from snow, jumped. The hare darted, ran, again sat down in a column and listened: where did the trouble come from, where should he run?

And as soon as he stood on his hind legs, he just looked around, how he jumped up in front of his very nose, how he straightened up, how a whole birch swayed, how a branch of a Christmas tree waved nearby!

And off and on: branches jump everywhere, breaking out of snow captivity, the whole forest is moving around, the whole forest has gone. And the mad hare rushes about, and every beast gets up, and the bird flies out of the forest.

Mikhail Prishvin "The conversation of trees"

The buds open, chocolate-colored, with green tails, and a large transparent drop hangs on each green beak. You take one kidney, rub it between your fingers, and then for a long time everything smells like the fragrant resin of birch, poplar or bird cherry.

You sniff a bird cherry bud and immediately remember how you used to climb up a tree for berries, shiny, black and lacquered. I ate them in handfuls right with the bones, but nothing but good came from this.

The evening is warm, and such silence, as if something should happen in such silence. And now the trees begin to whisper among themselves: a white birch with another white birch from afar echoes; a young aspen came out into the clearing like a green candle, and calls to itself the same green candle - aspen, waving a twig; bird cherry gives the bird cherry a branch with open buds. If you compare with us, we echo with sounds, and they have a fragrance.

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 to me and, out of their stupidity, they 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, he 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; on the different height On 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, weighed down by moisture, in appearance White birch stands as if 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. Cutting down such trees is a very fun activity, but also dangerous: with a piece of wood, if you don’t dodge it, 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, the 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 a long time 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 away 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 "Slappers"

Grow, grow green pipes; go, go from the swamps here heavy mallards, waddling, and behind them, whistling, black ducklings with yellow paws between bumps behind the uterus, as between mountains.

We are sailing on a boat across the lake into the reeds to check whether there will be many ducks this year and how they, young, grow: what they are now - they fly, or are still just diving, or running away through the water, flapping their short wings. These slappers are a very entertaining audience. To the right of us, in the reeds, there is a green wall and to the left a green one, but we are driving along a narrow lane free from aquatic plants. Ahead of us, two of the smallest chiren whistlers in black fluff swim out into the water from the reeds and, seeing us, begin to run away with all their might. But, strongly resting on the bottom of the oar, we gave our boat a very fast move and began to overtake them. I was already stretching out my hand to grab one, but suddenly both chirenka disappeared under the water. We waited a long time for them to emerge, when we suddenly noticed them in the reeds. They crouched there, sticking their noses out between the reeds. Their mother, a teal whistle, flew around us all the time, and very quietly - it seems to happen when a duck, deciding to go down to the water, at the very last moment before contact with water, as if standing in the air on its paws.

After this incident, with small chiryats in front, on the nearest stretch, a mallard duck appeared, quite large, almost the size of a uterus. We were sure that such a big one could fly perfectly, so we hit the oar to make it fly. But, it’s true, he hasn’t tried to fly yet and started clapping away from us.

We also set off after him and quickly overtook him. His situation was much worse than those little ones, because the place was so shallow that there was nowhere for him to dive. Several times, in his last despair, he tried to peck at the water with his nose, but there the land appeared to him, and he only lost time. In one of these attempts, our boat caught up with him, I extended my hand ...

At this moment of the last danger, the duckling gathered his strength and suddenly flew away. But this was his first flight, he still did not know how to manage. He flew exactly the same way as we, having learned to sit on a bicycle, start it with the movement of our legs, but we are still afraid to turn the steering wheel, and therefore the first trip is all straight, straight, until we stumble on something - and bang to one side. So the duckling flew straight ahead, and in front of him was a wall of reeds. He did not yet know how to soar over the reeds, caught on his paws and cheburahnuls down.

It was exactly the same with me when I jumped, jumped on a bicycle, fell, fell, and suddenly sat down and rushed straight at the cow with great speed ...

Mikhail Prishvin "Golden Meadow"

My brother and I, when dandelions ripen, had constant fun with them. We used to go somewhere to our trade - he was in front, I was in the heel.

"Seryozha!" - I will call him in a businesslike manner. He'll look back, and I'll blow a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, as you gape, he also fuknet. And so we plucked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery. We lived in the village, in front of the window we had a meadow, all golden from many blooming dandelions. This was very beautiful. Everyone said: “Very beautiful! Golden Meadow. One day I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home around noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening the meadow turned green again. Then I went and found a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if our fingers were yellow on the side of the palm of our hand and, clenched into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw how dandelions open their palms, and from this the meadow becomes golden again.

Since then, dandelion has become for us one of the most interesting colors because dandelions went to bed with us children and got up with us.

Stories by Konstantin Ushinsky about the seasons: about summer, about winter, about autumn, about spring. About the behavior of children and animals in different seasons. Stories about the beauty of nature.

Four wishes. Author: Konstantin Ushinsky

Mitya rode on a sledge from an icy mountain and skated on a frozen river, ran home ruddy, cheerful and said to his father:

How fun in winter! I wish it was all winter!

“Write down your wish in my pocket book,” said the father.

Mitya wrote.

Spring came. Mitya ran plenty of colorful butterflies across the green meadow, picked flowers, ran to his father and said:

What a beauty this spring is! I wish it were all spring.

Father again took out a book and ordered Mitya to write down his wish.

It's summer. Mitya and his father went to haymaking. The boy had fun all day long: he fished, picked berries, tumbled in fragrant hay, and in the evening he said to his father:

"I've had a lot of fun today!" I wish there was no end to summer!

And this desire of Mitya was written down in the same book. Autumn has come. In the garden they picked fruits - ruddy apples and yellow pears. Mitya was delighted and said to his father:

Autumn is the best of all seasons!

Then the father took out his notebook and showed the boy that he said the same thing about spring, and about winter, and about summer.

Children in the grove. Author: Konstantin Ushinsky

Two children, brother and sister, went to school. They had to pass by a beautiful, shady grove. It was hot and dusty on the road, but cool and cheerful in the grove.

— Do you know what? - said the brother to the sister. - We still have time to go to school. The school is now stuffy and boring, but in the grove it should be a lot of fun. Listen to the birds screaming there, and how many squirrels, how many squirrels jump on the branches! Shall we go there, sister?

The sister liked the brother's proposal. The children threw the alphabet into the grass, joined hands and disappeared between the green bushes, under the curly birch trees. It was definitely fun and noisy in the grove. The birds fluttered incessantly, singing and shouting; squirrels jumped on the branches; insects scurried about in the grass.

First of all, the children saw the golden bug.

“Play with us,” the children said to the bug.

“I would love to,” replied the beetle, “but I don’t have time: I have to get myself dinner.”

“Play with us,” the children said to the yellow, furry bee.

- I have no time to play with you, - the bee answered, - I need to collect honey.

- Will you play with us? the children asked the ant.

But the ant had no time to listen to them: he dragged a straw three times his size and hurried to build his cunning dwelling.

The children turned to the squirrel, suggesting that she also play with them, but the squirrel waved its fluffy tail and replied that it should stock up on nuts for the winter. The dove said, "I'm building a nest for my little babies."

A gray bunny ran to the stream to wash its muzzle. white flower strawberry also had no time to take care of children: he took advantage of the wonderful weather and hurried to prepare his juicy, tasty berry on time.

The children got bored that everyone was busy with their own business and no one wanted to play with them. They ran to the stream. Murmuring on the stones, the stream ran through the grove.

“You certainly have nothing to do,” the children told him. “Play with us.”

- How! I have nothing to do? the stream murmured angrily. “Oh, you lazy children! Look at me: I work day and night and do not know a moment of peace. Am I not singing people and animals? Who, besides me, washes clothes, turns mill wheels, carries boats and puts out fires? Oh, I have so much work that my head is spinning, - added the stream and began to murmur over the stones.

The children became even more bored, and they thought that it would be better for them to go to school first, and then, on their way from school, go into the grove. But at that very moment the boy noticed a tiny, beautiful robin on a green branch. She seemed to be sitting very calmly and whistling a merry song out of nothing to do.

- Hey, you merry sing-along! the boy shouted to the robin. “You seem to have absolutely nothing to do: play with us.”

- How? the offended robin whistled. "I have nothing to do?" Haven't I been catching midges all day to feed my little ones! I am so tired that I cannot raise my wings, and now I lull my dear children with a song. What did you do today, little sloths? They didn’t go to school, they didn’t learn anything, they run around the grove, and even interfere with other people’s work. Better go where you were sent, and remember that it is only pleasant for him to rest and play, who has worked and done everything that he had to do.

The children were ashamed; they went to school, and although they came late, they studied diligently.

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 away 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.

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. - Did you see this electric current? 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 blue sky, in the moonlight, in the flight of a night bird, in everything that 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; blue clusters of crane peas, golden cups of night blindness, half purple, half yellow flowers of Ivan da Marya were full of flowers everywhere; 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, but this is considered a plumb line, and in order to get to the top, you will have to do fifteen or twenty versts yourself. hard way along steep slopes.

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 of the 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 of the 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 the sun's rays, reflected from the snowy fields, blind 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 different colors- and yellow, and 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. The 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. Beneath it lay msharas—dense 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.