10.07.2013 10:35
The small house where I live in Meshchera deserves a description. This is a former bathhouse, a log hut covered with gray planks. The house is located in a dense garden, but for some reason it is fenced off from the garden by a high palisade. This stockade is a trap for village cats who love fish. Every time I return from fishing, cats of all stripes - red, black, gray and white with tan - lay siege to the house. They scurry around, sit on the fence, on the roofs, on old apple trees, howl at each other and wait for the evening. They all stare at the kukan with the fish - it is suspended from the branch of an old apple tree in such a way that it is almost impossible to get it.
In the evening, the cats carefully climb over the palisade and gather under the kukan. They rise to hind legs, and with the front ones they make swift and deft swings, trying to catch the kukan. From a distance it looks like the cats are playing volleyball. Then some impudent cat jumps up, grabs the fish with a death grip, hangs on it, swings and tries to tear the fish off. The rest of the cats hit each other's whiskered faces out of frustration. It ends with me leaving the bathhouse with a lantern. The cats, taken by surprise, rush to the stockade, but do not have time to climb over it, but squeeze between the stakes and get stuck. Then they lay back their ears, close their eyes and begin to scream desperately, begging for mercy.
In autumn, the whole house is covered with leaves, and in two small rooms it becomes light, like in a flying garden.
The stoves are crackling, there is a smell of apples and cleanly washed floors. The tits sit on the branches, pour glass balls into their throats, ring, crackle and look at the windowsill, where there is a slice of black bread.
I rarely spend the night in the house. I spend most nights at the lakes, and when I stay at home I sleep in an old gazebo at the bottom of the garden. It is overgrown with wild grapes. In the mornings the sun hits it through the purple, lilac, green and lemon foliage, and it always seems to me that I wake up inside a lit tree. The sparrows look into the gazebo with surprise. They are deadly busy for hours. They're ticking on the ground round table. The sparrows approach them, listen to the ticking with one ear or the other, and then peck the clock hard at the dial.
It’s especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when the slow, sheer rain is making a low noise in the garden.
The cool air barely moves the candle tongue. Angular shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. A moth, looking like a lump of gray raw silk, lands on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page.
It smells like rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.
At dawn I wake up. The fog rustles in the garden. Leaves are falling in the fog. I pull a bucket of water out of the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd’s horn - he is still singing far away, right at the outskirts.
I go to the empty bathhouse and boil tea. A cricket starts its song on the stove. He sings very loudly and does not pay attention to my steps or the clinking of cups.
It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. The chained dog Divny is sleeping at the gate. He hits the ground with his tail, but does not raise his head. Marvelous has long been accustomed to my leaving at dawn. He just yawns after me and sighs noisily.
I'm sailing in the fog. The East is turning pink. The smell of smoke from rural stoves can no longer be heard. All that remains is the silence of the water, thickets, and centuries-old willows.
Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lost in this huge world of fragrant foliage, grass, autumn withering, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this confusion as happiness.
The small house where I live in Meshchera deserves a description. This is a former bathhouse, a log hut covered with gray planks. The house is located in a dense garden, but for some reason it is fenced off from the garden by a high palisade. This stockade is a trap for village cats who love fish. Every time I return from fishing, cats of all stripes - red, black, gray and white with tan - lay siege to the house. They scurry around, sit on the fence, on roofs, on old apple trees, howl at each other and wait for the evening. They all look, without looking away, at the kukan with fish - it is suspended from the branch of an old apple tree in such a way that it is almost impossible to get it.
In the evening, the cats carefully climb over the palisade and gather under the kukan. They rise on their hind legs, and make swift and deft swings with their front legs, trying to catch the kukan. From a distance it looks like the cats are playing volleyball. Then some impudent cat jumps up, grabs the fish with a death grip, hangs on it, swings and tries to tear the fish off. The rest of the cats hit each other's whiskered faces out of frustration. It ends with me leaving the bathhouse with a lantern. The cats, taken by surprise, rush to the stockade, but do not have time to climb over it, but squeeze between the stakes and get stuck. Then they lay back their ears, close their eyes and begin to scream desperately, begging for mercy.
In autumn, the whole house is covered with leaves, and in two small rooms it becomes light, like in a flying garden.
The stoves are crackling, there is a smell of apples and cleanly washed floors. Tits sit on branches, pour glass balls in their throats, ring, crackle and look at the windowsill, where a piece of black bread lies.
I rarely spend the night in the house. I spend most nights at the lakes, and when I stay at home, I sleep in an old gazebo in the back of the garden. It is overgrown with wild grapes. In the mornings the sun hits it through the purple, lilac, green and lemon foliage, and it always seems to me that I wake up inside a lit tree. The sparrows look into the gazebo with surprise. They are deadly busy for hours. They tick on a round table dug into the ground. The sparrows approach them, listen to the ticking with one ear or the other, and then peck the clock hard at the dial.
It’s especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when the slow, sheer rain is making a low noise in the garden.
The cool air barely moves the candle tongue. Angular shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. A moth, looking like a lump of gray raw silk, lands on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page. It smells like rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.
At dawn I wake up. The fog rustles in the garden. Leaves are falling in the fog. I pull a bucket of water out of the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd’s horn - he is still singing far away, right on the outskirts.
I go to the empty bathhouse and boil tea. A cricket starts its song on the stove. He sings very loudly and does not pay attention to my steps or the clinking of cups.
It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. The chain dog Divny sleeps at the gate. He hits the ground with his tail, but does not raise his head. Marvelous has long been accustomed to my leaving at dawn. He just yawns after me and sighs noisily. I'm sailing in the fog. The East is turning pink. The smell of smoke from rural stoves can no longer be heard. All that remains is the silence of the water and the thickets of centuries-old willows.
Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lost in this huge world of fragrant foliage, grass, autumn withering, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this confusion as happiness.
2 4 2 2 3 3
I. Reading text.
1. Working with text before reading.
Children independently carry out the first stage of working with the text, paying attention to the title, author’s name and illustration to the text. The teacher shows the book “The Meshchera Side”. She is already familiar to the children. Students note the talent of K. Paustovsky - a true artist of words, his poetry. They indicate the autobiographical nature of the stories, first-person narration. Remember the principle of seeing beauty in the most ordinary.
– The section from which we are reading is dedicated to autumn. How could the story “My House” end up in this section? (Apparently, K. Paustovsky talks about a house in autumn, includes in the story autumn landscapes etc.)
One or two students, after preliminary preparation at home, write down the key words for the first part on the board.
After reading the key words, children make assumptions about the content.
2. Working with text while reading.
1.Primary reading and title of the 1st part.
Part 1children read aloud (commented reading, dialogue with the author).
The small house where I live in Meshchera deserves a description. (I wonder why? We ask the question, but it does not require an answer.) This is a former bathhouse, a log hut covered with gray planks. (That is, with boards.) The house is located in a dense garden, but for some reason it is fenced off from the garden by a high palisade. (A stockade is a fence where stakes or boards are located close to each other - often, and the gaps between them are narrow.) This stockade is a trap for village cats who love fish.
Can you guess why? Need to clarify the meaning of the word trap- a trap.) Every time I return from fishing, cats of all stripes - red, black, gray and white with tan - lay siege to the house. (That is, they surround him from all sides. Do you understand why?) They scurry around, sit on the fence, on the roofs, on old apple trees, howl at each other and wait for the evening. They all look, without looking away, at the kukan with fish - it is suspended from the branch of an old apple tree in such a way that it is almost impossible to get it. (Since “almost” means it’s still possible...)
In the evening, the cats carefully climb over the palisade (Why carefully?) and gather under the kukan. They rise on their hind legs, and make swift and deft swings with their front legs, trying to catch the kukan. From a distance it looks like the cats are playing volleyball. Then some impudent cat jumps up, grabs the fish with a death grip, hangs on it, swings and tries to tear the fish off. (Can you imagine?) The rest of the cats hit each other in their whiskered faces out of frustration. (Can you imagine?) It ends with me leaving the bathhouse with a lantern. The cats, taken by surprise, rush to the stockade, but do not have time to climb over it, but squeeze between the stakes and get stuck. Then they lay back their ears, close their eyes and begin to scream desperately, begging for mercy. (Can you imagine? A very bright picture!)
In autumn, the whole house is covered with leaves, and in two small rooms it becomes light, like in a flying garden. (Why is it brighter in the house? (The leaves have fallen, the trees are bare, that’s why it’s lighter.)
The stoves are crackling, there is a smell of apples and cleanly washed floors. Tits sit on branches, pour glass balls in their throats, ring, crackle and look at the windowsill, where a piece of black bread lies.
Questions after reading part 1:
– What do you think the mood of the owner of the house is in? autumn time in a wooden hut?
– What sounds and smells did you hear in two last paragraphs?
– How would you title this part? (“Desperate Neighbors”, “Besieged Hut”.) Writing in a notebook (p. 29, task 1).
– Why is the small house in Meshchera “worthy of description”, now can you answer this question?
Part 2(teacher reads).
While reading, you need to help children imagine autumn paintings, feel the mood of the author, the feeling of happiness alone with nature.
2.Re-reading the story.
While reading part 2, we invite children to break it down into pictures and make a plan (task 1 in the notebook, p. 29).
1) Gazebo in the depths of the forest.
2) Night autumn rain.
3) Foggy dawn and invigorating shower.
4) Cricket song.
5) Leaving at dawn.
6) Lost in a huge world.
3. Summary conversation.
a) – Why does the narrator call the September day deserted?
b) – What, in your opinion, is the secret of this happiness amid the autumn withering?
(He communicates with nature, rests, observes, new thoughts are born to him.)
– You are absolutely right, and I would like to read the lines of K. Paustovsky, in which he talks about the feeling of autumn: “There were many signs of autumn, but I tried to remember them. One thing I knew for sure was that I would never forget this autumn bitterness, miraculously combined with lightness in my soul and simple and clear thoughts.
The gloomier the clouds were, dragging wet, frayed hems along the ground, the colder the rains, the fresher it became in the heart, the easier, as if by themselves, the words fell on paper.”
c) – What lines of poetry do you think are very suitable for the second part of the story “My House”?
It's a sad time! Ouch charm!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty!..
A.S. Pushkin
d) - Do you really think an old house K. Paustovsky, where he spent time in Meshchera, deserves to be described and talked about? Why?
e) – What do you think K. Paustovsky puts into the concept of “My Home”? Is it just an old log cabin? (This is a garden, and a well, and the Wonderful dog, and cats, and curious sparrows, and a gazebo overgrown with grapes, and the nature that he observed and understood... This is the world around him...)
f) – Do you agree with Nastya’s dad’s statement that you can write about the beauty of nature, about the feelings it evokes, in prose?
3. Working with the text after reading.
1.Task 4 in the notebook, p. 29 (record keywords and combinations).
1st part 2nd part
former bathhouse old gazebo
dense garden of wild grapes
picket fence sparrows
cat trap watch
besieged on an autumn night
kukan with fish leisurely rain
stranglehold of the moth
caught off guard by the fog
begging for mercy well water
flying garden cricket
tits dog Divny
the silence of the water
lostness
-What did we do? (They read the text, answered questions about the text, showed their attitude towards the characters.)
– What skill has been formed? is it?
OLD MEN
Talkative old people live in the meadows - in dugouts and huts. These are either watchmen at collective farm gardens, or ferrymen, or basket makers. Basket workers set up huts near the coastal willow thickets.
Acquaintance with these old people usually begins during a thunderstorm or rain, when they have to sit in huts until the thunderstorm falls across the Oka River or into the forests and a rainbow overturns over the meadows.
Acquaintance always takes place according to a once and for all established custom. First we light a cigarette, then there is a polite and cunning conversation aimed at finding out who we are, after which there are a few vague words about the weather (“the rains are coming” or, conversely, “it will finally wash the grass, otherwise everything is dry and dry"). And only after this the conversation can freely move on to any topic.
Most of all, old people love to talk about unusual things: about the new Moscow Sea, “water gliders” (gliders) on the Oka, French food (“they cook fish soup from frogs and slurp it with silver spoons”), badger races and a collective farmer from near Pronsk, who, They say he earned so many workdays that he bought a car with music with them.
Most often I met with a grumpy old man who was a basket-maker. He lived in a hut on Muzga. His name was Stepan, and his nickname was “Beard on the Poles.”
Grandfather was thin, thin-legged, like an old horse. He spoke indistinctly, his beard was sticking into his mouth; the wind ruffled my grandfather's shaggy face.
Once I spent the night in Stepan’s hut. I arrived late. It was a gray, warm twilight, with hesitant rain falling. He rustled through the bushes, died down, then started making noise again, as if he was playing hide and seek with us.
This rain is fussing about like a child,” said Stepan. “It’s just a child - it moves here, then there, or even hides, listening to our conversation.”
A girl of about twelve, light-eyed, quiet, and frightened, was sitting by the fire. She spoke only in a whisper.
Look, the fool from Zaborye has gotten lost! - the grandfather said affectionately. “I searched and searched for the heifer in the meadows and finally found it until dark.” She ran to her grandfather for fire. What are you going to do with her?
Stepan pulled out a yellow cucumber from his pocket and gave it to the girl:
Eat, don't hesitate.
The girl took the cucumber, nodded her head, but did not eat it.
Grandfather put the pot on the fire and began to cook the stew.
“Here, my dears,” said the grandfather, lighting a cigarette, “you wander, as if hired, through the meadows, through the lakes, but you have no idea that there were all these meadows, and lakes, and monastery forests. From the Oka itself to Pra, almost a hundred miles, the entire forest was monastic. And now it’s a people’s forest, now it’s a labor forest.
Why were they given such forests, grandfather? - asked the girl.
And the dog knows why! The foolish women said - for holiness. They atone for our sins before the Mother of God. What are our sins? We hardly had any sins. Eh, darkness, darkness!
Grandfather sighed.
I also went to churches, it was a sin,” the grandfather muttered embarrassedly. “But what’s the point!” Lapti was disfigured for nothing.
Grandfather paused and crumbled some black bread into the stew.
“Our life was bad,” he said, lamenting. “Neither the men nor the women were happy enough.” The man would go back and forth - the man, at the very least, would get drunk on vodka, but the woman would completely disappear. Her boys were neither drunk nor well-fed. All her life she trampled around the stove with her hands, until the worms appeared in her eyes. Don't laugh, stop it! I said the right thing about worms. Those worms in the women's eyes started from the fire.
Horrible! - the girl sighed quietly.
“Don’t be scared,” said the grandfather. “You won’t get worms.” Now the girls have found their happiness. People used to think that happiness lives on warm waters, in blue seas, but in reality it turned out that it lives here, in a shard.” Grandfather tapped his forehead with a clumsy finger. “Here, for example, is Manka Malyavina.” She was a vocal girl, that's all. In the old days, she would have cried out her voice overnight, but now look what happened. Every day, Malyavin has a pure holiday: the accordion plays, pies are baked. And why? Because, my dears, how can he, Vaska Malyavin, not have fun living when Manka sends him, the old devil, two hundred rubles every month!
Where? - asked the girl.
From Moscow. She sings in the theater. Those who have heard it say it is heavenly singing. All the people are crying their eyes out. This is what it’s becoming now, a woman’s lot. She came last summer, Manka. So how will you know? A thin girl brought me a gift. She sang in the reading room. I’m used to everything, but I’ll tell you straight: it grabbed me by the heart, but I don’t understand why. Where, I think, was such power given to a person? And how did it disappear from us, men, from our stupidity for thousands of years! Now you'll trample on the ground, you'll listen here, you'll look there, and it seems like it's too early to die - you just can't choose the time to die, my dear.
Grandfather took the stew off the fire and reached into the hut for spoons.
We should live and live, Yegorych,” he said from the hut. “We were born a little too early.” You guessed wrong.
The girl looked into the fire with bright, sparkling eyes and thought about something of her own.
The small house where I live in Meshchera deserves a description. This is a former bathhouse, a log hut covered with gray planks. The house is located in a dense garden, but for some reason it is fenced off from the garden by a high palisade. This stockade is a trap for village cats who love fish. Every time I return from fishing, cats of all stripes - red, black, gray and white with tan - lay siege to the house. They scurry around, sit on the fence, on the roofs, on old apple trees, howl at each other and wait for the evening. They all stare at the kukan with the fish - it is suspended from the branch of an old apple tree in such a way that it is almost impossible to get it.
In the evening, the cats carefully climb over the palisade and gather under the kukan. They rise on their hind legs, and make swift and deft swings with their front legs, trying to catch the kukan. From a distance it looks like the cats are playing volleyball. Then some impudent cat jumps up, grabs the fish with a death grip, hangs on it, swings and tries to tear the fish off. The rest of the cats hit each other's whiskered faces out of frustration. It ends with me leaving the bathhouse with a lantern. The cats, taken by surprise, rush to the stockade, but do not have time to climb over it, but squeeze between the stakes and get stuck. Then they lay back their ears, close their eyes and begin to scream desperately, begging for mercy.
In autumn, the whole house is covered with leaves, and in two small rooms it becomes light, like in a flying garden.
The stoves are crackling, there is a smell of apples and cleanly washed floors. The tits sit on the branches, pour glass balls into their throats, ring, crackle and look at the windowsill, where there is a slice of black bread.
I rarely spend the night in the house. I spend most nights at the lakes, and when I stay at home I sleep in an old gazebo at the bottom of the garden. It is overgrown with wild grapes. In the mornings the sun hits it through the purple, lilac, green and lemon foliage, and it always seems to me that I wake up inside a lit tree. The sparrows look into the gazebo with surprise. They are deadly busy for hours. They tick on a round table dug into the ground. The sparrows approach them, listen to the ticking with one ear or the other, and then peck the clock hard at the dial.
It’s especially good in the gazebo on quiet autumn nights, when the slow, sheer rain is making a low noise in the garden.
The cool air barely moves the candle tongue. Angular shadows from grape leaves lie on the ceiling of the gazebo. A moth, looking like a lump of gray raw silk, lands on an open book and leaves the finest shiny dust on the page.
It smells like rain - a gentle and at the same time pungent smell of moisture, damp garden paths.
At dawn I wake up. The fog rustles in the garden. Leaves are falling in the fog. I pull a bucket of water out of the well. A frog jumps out of the bucket. I douse myself with well water and listen to the shepherd’s horn - he is still singing far away, right at the outskirts.
I go to the empty bathhouse and boil tea. A cricket starts its song on the stove. He sings very loudly and does not pay attention to my steps or the clinking of cups.
It's getting light. I take the oars and go to the river. The chained dog Divny is sleeping at the gate. He hits the ground with his tail, but does not raise his head. Marvelous has long been accustomed to my leaving at dawn. He just yawns after me and sighs noisily.
I'm sailing in the fog. The East is turning pink. The smell of smoke from rural stoves can no longer be heard. All that remains is the silence of the water, thickets, and centuries-old willows.
Ahead is a deserted September day. Ahead - lost in this huge world of fragrant foliage, grass, autumn withering, calm waters, clouds, low sky. And I always feel this lostness as happiness.
UNSELFISHNESS
You can write a lot more about the Meshchera region. You can write that this region is very rich in forests and peat, hay and potatoes, milk and berries. But I don't write about it on purpose. Should we really love our land just because it is rich, that it produces abundant harvests and that its natural forces can be used for our well-being!
This is not the only reason we love our native places. We also love them because, even if they are not rich, they are beautiful to us. I love the Meshchera region because it is beautiful, although all its charm is not revealed immediately, but very slowly, gradually.
At first glance, this is a quiet and unwise land under a dim sky. But the more you get to know it, the more, almost to the point of pain in your heart, you begin to love this ordinary land. And if I have to defend my country, then somewhere in the depths of my heart I will know that I am also defending this piece of land, which taught me to see and understand beauty, no matter how inconspicuous in appearance it may be - this thoughtful forest land, love for who will never be forgotten, just as first love is never forgotten.