Good hosts, a Bulgarian fairy tale about a lazybones and a lazybones. Good hosts, a Bulgarian tale about a loafer and a lazybones

The tailor Rabinovich liked to say: “If I were a king, I would live even better than the king. I would sew a little more."

It sounds ridiculous, but this point of view, you will be surprised, is very common. Many people seriously think that kings should also sew, and if they just sit on the throne and rule the state, they are just bums, not kings.

Here's a story from past years. At the end of perestroika, a certain pensioner agreed with a neighboring collective farm to cut logs for them. We discussed the amount, shook hands, the pensioner took out from the trunk of his Cossack an imported chainsaw brought by his son from across the sea.

Then the surprised spectators witnessed a miracle - the pensioner not only started his Japanese equipment the first time, but also began to wield it at such a speed that some collective farmers were forced to rub their eyes in order to make sure that their eyesight was reliable.

Having entered the hut in which the chairman of the collective farm met, the pensioner asked for a calculation - instead of the agreed amount, however, he was given only a quarter of what was promised. “I thought you were here all day long from morning to evening,” the client explained the changes, “and you sawed everything in two hours.”

From the point of view of the chairman of the collective farm, everything is fair. Worked for two hours? Get paid in two hours. And how much you did in these two hours is no longer your merit, but your technique. In the end, you didn’t overexert yourself, it’s more convenient to work with a Japanese chainsaw than with a Soviet one. If a pensioner asks to pay for a day of work, the chairman will consider himself deceived - like a passenger who gave the driver a large bill to take him from the Leningrad station to Yaroslavsky with a breeze, and a minute later discovered that both stations are located on the same square.

The tailor Rabinovich mentioned at the beginning adhered to a similar logic. Does the king have free time? There is. So why not also sew trousers for sale to increase your income a little?

Now, after this necessary introduction, I will tell you, as I promised in the title of the article, about two types of quitters.

Let's say we assign two bums to make 100 parts. We allocate a month for this.

The first loafer, let's call him Bucephalov, comes to work all month, gets up to the machine, and honestly grinds one part per shift. By the end of the month, he throws up his hands and gives us 25 parts out of 100.

The second loafer, let's give him the surname Levshin, spends two days making tricky equipment that speeds up the process of work, then in three days he makes all 100 details and disappears. For three weeks he is absent from the workplace, then a rested and tanned loafer appears to give us a long-finished order.

As you can see, both of them were 75% goofy. The first loafer made only 25% of the order, the second loafer only worked 25% of the time. Nevertheless, there is a significant difference between the idlers.

One of the commentators commented on the story like this:

Formally, the commentator is, of course, right. Why is the king sitting on the throne and ruling when he could sew a little more trousers to increase the overall income of the kingdom?

If you think about it, however, it becomes clear that the well-being of countries does not depend so much on the number of working hours spent.

Italy's per capita GDP is $38,000. In resource-rich Niger - $ 1,100 per person, 34 times (!) Less. If we consider that it's all about working time, we should assume that the citizens of Niger are very lazy: an Italian works on average, say, 8 hours, and his colleague from Niger, therefore ... 14 minutes.

Of course, this is nonsense. The citizens of Niger may not be as industrious as the carefree Italians, but uranium ore mining and farming are still very tiring. The key to the difference between Niger and Italy is obvious - in Italy, labor productivity is higher.

From all this, two approaches to work that do not get along well with each other follow.

Approach 1. We encourage people to work harder. We demand that everyone work at least 8 hours, preferably with hands black from soot and large drops of sweat on a wrinkled face. We set an example for society of a nameless worker who has worked in one place all his life and retires with zero career growth, in the position of a simple worker, with which he started sometime after graduating from vocational schools. We pay only for the time spent.

Approach 2. We encourage people to produce more. We set as an example a society of rich people like Henry Ford, who managed to get rich due to the good organization of their own and other people's work. We pay exclusively for the product produced, ignoring the effort spent on its production.

What do you think is the best way for our society?

The tale of two loafers is a tale about the fact that diligence must be brought up in oneself, and loafers should not be given a chance, otherwise life will become completely uninteresting. The main meaning of the tale is that no responsible work can be entrusted to loafers. They will do everything sloppy, awry, and awry. You won’t risk giving them important work - they won’t even start it, and if they start, they will make mistakes, confuse things, you won’t unravel them later.

Fairy tale "Two loafers"

Once upon a time there were two loafers, Korney and Fadey.

Growth is large, but diligence is small. Or rather, none at all. In their houses there are mountains of dirty dishes, in the corners spiders have wove cobwebs, and in the yards there is grass uncut to the waist.

Korney asks Fadey:

- What are you doing today?

- Yes, it would be necessary to beat the buckets. And you have?

- Hands in trousers, but I'll go to sit out my pants.

- It's the same thing.

That's how two loafers found themselves doing something they liked. And if they go to earn a pretty penny for bread, they will do everything awry, awry and awry.

Yes, it so happened that Fadey's bucks ran out, and Korney's pants fell into disrepair. What to do? They go miserable, they wipe away tears ...

And towards the muzhik is lively. Those to him:

- Take it to work.

- Yes, what kind of work should you take, loafers, except to guard the sun?

Two loafers began to guard the sun. The rooster saw them, shouted that it was his job to watch the sun and crow.

The loafers returned to the peasant.

- Get another job.

The man thought for a long time. Finally came up with.

- Go to the market to scratch your tongues. Tongue without bones, before the mind prowls. Since you can’t do it in deeds, then in words it will definitely be so! the man laughed.

And so two loafers settled down in the bazaar to scratch with their tongues.

They say you can't keep up with your tongue barefoot...

Questions and assignments for the tale of two loafers

What kind of person can be called a "loafer"?

Do you think lazy people are born or made?

What "smart" things did Korney and Fadey do in the beginning of the tale?

What does the expression "sickly-sloppy" mean?

Why did the slackers still go looking for work?

Why did the rooster drive them away?

What job did the peasant pick up for the quitters at the end of the tale?

What proverbs about language do you know?

Draw two people chatting in the bazaar.

What proverbs fit the story?

Loafers don't wait for the sun.
Himself on the stove, and the tongue on the river.

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own idiosyncratic beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Near the river, on the lawn, lived the Loafer and Lazy
In a low house with two windows, slightly lopsided.
If autumn rain is whipping, the house is salvation from the rain.
If a blizzard howls, a fire burns in the house.
And a goat lived with them - roguish eyes,
With white legs, with small horns,
And on the horns, day and night, two bells rang a little.
She wandered on the grass and amused the owners
With a quiet ringing, a good ringing, that green ones flew from the meadows.
... The sun has risen for a long time - the Loafer threw off the blanket,
He went, groaning, to the window and let's wake up his wife.

Lazybones breathes evenly, as if the Loafer does not hear.
Hey, get up, we've got work to do!
Get up this early? What are you!

Finally, around noon,
and hunger raised the hostess.
In five minutes our heroes
ate milk and porridge.

And then, gathering his strength, he trudged dejectedly into the forest,
To bring firewood and take them to the village.
And Lazybones all day, spreading a tow in the shade,
She kept spinning slowly, not for herself, but for sale.
So they lived quietly. The days flew by. The years flew by.
But one day, on Sunday, their goat disappeared into the forest.
She disappeared behind a distant ravine - as if she had fallen through the earth!

Without a goat, we will feel bad! said the wife with a sigh. ¶
You should go to the forest, my friend, and bring a goat home! ..
Hurry, otherwise the goat will be met by a wolf in a dense forest.
Ile hijacked by evil people ...
Nothing will happen to the goat.
Will be back soon. Enough unnecessary talk!
Here comes the trouble! I won't follow the goat.

How is it that you won't go? Well, master! Well, good!
You've gone completely crazy!
Shut up! Go yourself! Though distant lands ...
Well, are you going to bed soon?
And while I wander in the field, will you at least get enough sleep here?

So they cursed for a long time, but the abuse was of little use:
And they didn’t look for a goat, and they got tired of swearing - how can you not get tired here?
And the lazy ones went to bed.
And they dreamed that night that someone was driving away,
Behind the valleys, waterfalls, two huge herds of goats.
Through the dream of the bells, the copper ringing was heard all night.
At this time, at dawn, the wolf met a goat by the river. And the goat under the dark Christmas tree fell right into the mouth of the wolf.
And the lazy ones slept sweetly, and snored, and sighed.
At last, exactly at noon, hunger woke them from bed.
But neither milk nor porridge was found by our heroes either in pots or pans.
Well, so what! They sighed. Yes, of course, it’s a pity for the goat, but for now at least a spinning wheel
We also have an old house - somehow we will live!
So they said. And the days flew by again.

But one summer day, suddenly thunder struck,
The birds were silent in fear. The hail went, beat the wheat.
The wind blew out the glass in the house and completely destroyed the roof.
And the wife said to her husband:
Summer, and such a cold! The downpour whips from the ceiling, there is a whole river in the house.
The roof needs to be fixed, hubby... Don't you hear?
But the husband answered: Why are you! The house is the hostess's concern.
The roof needs to be repaired and the tiles replaced.
You climb onto the roof, because that's why you are the hostess!
Well, well! wife said. Do I have little work?
Who, tell me, cooks, washes and fusses from morning to night? I have no sleep, no rest...
Ah, what is it? And now the wife has to climb on the roof?
So they swore for a long time, but the abuse was of little use.
No matter how you argue with each other - the roof continues to flow.
So the water flowed, flowed, the furniture floated on the floor,
The walls blackened from the water, the beams gradually rotted.

But autumn crept imperceptibly with cold and wind.
And when one day the wind, confusing everything in the world,
I ran into the house, like a robber whistled -
The house tilted on its side and suddenly collapsed.
From under the logs and ruins crawled out for a long, long time
Loafer, our unfortunate hero, all tattered and dirty,
And the gloomy Lazy Woman, the ill-fated hostess.
On the lawn, sitting on the stumps, they mourned.
And to tears they felt sorry for the painted spinning wheel,
And their poor goat, and copper bells,
And a little house with two windows, lopsided a little.

All the best! See you soon!