List of works to learn by heart and definition of the genre of the work the teacher carries out independently according to the author's program.
An excerpt of a work (poetic) for grades 5-11 must be a complete semantic text of at least 30 lines; prose text – 10-15 lines (grades 5-8), 15-20 lines (grades 9-11). Texts for memorizing from a dramatic work are determined by the form of the monologue.
1. A.S. Pushkin. “The Bronze Horseman” (excerpt “I love you, Peter’s creation...”)
2. I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)
3. I.S.Goncharov. "Oblomov" (excerpt)
4. A.N. Ostrovsky. “Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)
5. F.I.Tyutchev. "Oh, how murderously we love..."
6. N.A. Nekrasov. “The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”); “You and I are stupid people...”, “Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)
7. A.A.Fet. “Distant friend, understand my sobs...”
8. A.K. Tolstoy. “In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”
9. L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)
10. A. Rimbaud. "Closet"
Alexander Pushkin.“I love you, Peter’s creation” (from the poem “The Bronze Horseman”)
I love you, Petra's creation,
I love your strict, slender appearance,
Neva sovereign current,
Its coastal granite,
Your fences have a cast iron pattern,
of your thoughtful nights
Transparent twilight, moonless shine,
When I'm in my room
I write, I read without a lamp,
And the sleeping communities are clear
Deserted streets and light
Admiralty needle,
And, not letting the darkness of the night
To golden skies
One dawn gives way to another
He hurries, giving the night half an hour.
I love your cruel winter
Still air and frost,
Sleigh running along the wide Neva,
Girls' faces are brighter than roses,
And the shine, and the noise, and the talk of balls,
And at the time of the feast the bachelor
The hiss of foamy glasses
And the punch flame is blue.
I love the warlike liveliness
Amusing Fields of Mars,
Infantry troops and horses
Uniform beauty
In their harmoniously unsteady system
The shreds of these victorious banners,
The shine of these copper caps,
Shot through and through in battle.
I love you, military capital,
Your stronghold is smoke and thunder,
When the queen is full
Gives a son to the royal house,
Or victory over the enemy
Russia triumphs again
Or, breaking your blue ice,
The Neva carries him to the seas
And, sensing the days of spring, he rejoices.
Show off, city Petrov, and stand
Unshakable like Russia,
May he make peace with you
And the defeated element;
Enmity and ancient captivity
Let the Finnish waves forget
And they will not be vain malice
Disturb Peter's eternal sleep!
I.S. Turgenev. "Fathers and Sons" (excerpt)
And now I repeat to you at parting... because there is no point in deceiving yourself: we are saying goodbye forever, and you yourself feel it... you acted smartly; you were not created for our bitter, tart, bean* life. You have neither insolence nor anger, but only youthful courage and youthful enthusiasm; This is not suitable for our business. Your brother, a nobleman, cannot go further than noble humility or noble boiling, and this is nothing. For example, you don’t fight - and you already imagine yourself to be great - but we want to fight. What! Our dust will eat into your eyes, our dirt will stain you, and you haven’t grown up to us, you involuntarily admire yourself, you enjoy scolding yourself; But it’s boring for us - give us others! We need to break others! You are a nice fellow; but you are still a soft, liberal barich - e volatu, as my parent puts it.
Are you saying goodbye to me forever, Evgeniy? - Arkady said sadly, - and you have no other words for me?
Bazarov scratched the back of his head.
Yes, Arkady, I have other words, but I won’t express them, because this is romanticism - it means: get drunk *. And you should get married as soon as possible; Yes, get your own nest, and have more children. They will be smart just because they will be born on time, not like you and me.
NOTES:
* BOBYL- unmarried, bachelor, celibate, single, wifeless, familyless.
*GET EXCITED and fall apart, fall apart, fall apart - become soft, fall into a sentimental mood.
I.S. Goncharov."Oblomov" (excerpt)
No,” Olga interrupted, raising her head and trying to look at him through her tears. “I just found out recently that I loved what I wanted in you, what Stolz showed me, what we came up with with him.” I loved the future Oblomov! You are meek and honest, Ilya; you are gentle... dove; you hide your head under your wing - and don’t want anything more; you are ready to coo under the roof all your life... but I’m not like that: this is not enough for me, I need something else, but I don’t know what! Can you teach me, tell me what it is, what I lack, give it all so that I... And tenderness... where it is not!
Oblomov’s legs gave way; he sat down in a chair and wiped his hands and forehead with a handkerchief.
The word was cruel; it deeply stung Oblomov: inside it seemed to burn him, outside it blew cold on him. In response, he smiled somehow pitifully, painfully bashful, like a beggar who was reproached for his nakedness. He sat with this smile of powerlessness, weakened from excitement and resentment; his dull gaze clearly said: “Yes, I am meager, pitiful, poor... beat me, beat me!..”
Who cursed you, Ilya? What did you do? You are kind, smart, gentle, noble... and... you are dying! What ruined you? There is no name for this evil...
“Yes,” he said, barely audible.
She looked at him questioningly, her eyes full of tears.
Oblomovism! - he whispered, then took her hand, wanted to kiss it, but couldn’t, he just pressed it tightly to his lips, and hot tears dripped onto her fingers.
Without raising his head, without showing her his face, he turned around and walked away.
A.N. Ostrovsky.“Thunderstorm” (excerpt: one of the monologues)
Monologue of Katerina.
I say, why don’t people fly like birds? You know, sometimes I feel like I'm a bird. When you stand on a mountain, you feel the urge to fly. That's how I would run up, raise my hands and fly...
How playful I was! I'm completely withered...
Was that what I was like? I lived, didn’t worry about anything, like a bird in the wild. Mama doted on me, dressed me up like a doll, and didn’t force me to work; I used to do whatever I want. Do you know how I lived with girls? I'll tell you now. I used to get up early; If it’s summer, I’ll go to the spring, wash myself, bring some water with me and that’s it, I’ll water all the flowers in the house. I had many, many flowers. Then we’ll go to church with Mama, all of us, strangers; our house was full of strangers; yes praying mantis. And we’ll come home from church, sit down to do some kind of work, more like gold velvet, and the wandering women will begin to tell us: where they were, what they saw, different lives, or sing poetry. So time will pass until lunch. Here the old women go to sleep, and I walk around the garden. Then to Vespers, and in the evening again stories and singing. It was so good!
Monologue of Kuligin.
Cruel morals, sir, in our city, they are cruel! In philistinism, sir, you will see nothing but rudeness and stark poverty. And we, sir, will never escape this crust! Because honest work will never earn us more than our daily bread. And whoever has money, sir, tries to enslave the poor so that his labors will be free more money make money Do you know what your uncle, Savel Prokofich, answered to the mayor? The peasants came to the mayor to complain that he would not disrespect any of them. The mayor began to tell him: “Listen, he says, Savel Prokofich, pay the men well! Every day they come to me with complaints!” Your uncle patted the mayor on the shoulder and said: “Is it worth it, your honor, for us to talk about such trifles! I have a lot of people every year; You understand: I won’t pay them a penny per person, but I make thousands out of this, so that’s good for me!” That's it, sir!
F.I. Tyutchev."Oh, how murderously we love..."
Oh, how murderously we love,
We are most likely to destroy,
What is dear to our hearts!
How long ago, proud of my victory,
You said: she is mine...
A year has not passed - ask and find out,
What was left of her?
Where did the roses go?
The smile of the lips and the sparkle of the eyes?
Everything was scorched, tears burned out
With its hot moisture.
Do you remember, when you met,
At the first fatal meeting,
Her eyes and speeches are magical
And baby-like laughter?
So what now? And where is all this?
And how long was the dream?
Alas, like northern summer,
He was a passing guest!
Fate's terrible sentence
Your love was for her
And undeserved shame
She laid down her life!
A life of renunciation, a life of suffering!
In her soul's depths
She was left with memories...
But they changed them too.
And on earth she felt wild,
The charm is gone...
The crowd surged and trampled into the mud
What bloomed in her soul.
And what about the long torment?
How did she manage to save the ashes?
Evil pain, bitter pain,
Pain without joy and without tears!
Oh, how murderously we love!
As in the violent blindness of passions
We are most likely to destroy,
What is dearer to our hearts!..
N.A. Nekrasov.“The Poet and the Citizen” (excerpt “The son cannot look calmly...”)
The son cannot look calmly
On my dear mother's grief,
There will be no worthy citizen
I have a cold heart for my homeland,
There is no worse reproach for him...
Go into the fire for the honor of your fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die blamelessly.
You will not die in vain, the matter is strong,
When the blood flows underneath...
And you, poet! chosen one of heaven,
Herald of age-old truths,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;
God didn't die in soul of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
Will always be available to her!
Be a citizen! serving art,
Live for the good of your neighbor,
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Don’t bother exhibiting them:
They themselves will shine in your work
Their life-giving rays.
Look: solid stone in fragments
The poor worker crushes
And from under the hammer it flies
And the flame splashes out on its own!
N.A. Nekrasov.“You and I are stupid people...”
You and I are stupid people:
In just a minute, the flash is ready!
Relief for a troubled chest
An unreasonable, harsh word.
Speak up when you're angry
Everything that excites and torments the soul!
Let us, my friend, be openly angry:
The world is easier and more likely to get boring.
If prose in love is inevitable,
So let's take a share of happiness from her:
After a quarrel, so full, so tender
Return of love and participation.
N.A. Nekrasov.“Who can live well in Rus'?” (excerpt)
You're miserable too
You are also abundant
You are mighty
You are also powerless
Mother Rus'!
Saved in slavery
Free heart -
Gold, gold
People's heart!
People's power
Mighty force -
Conscience is calm,
The truth is alive!
Strength with untruth
Doesn't get along
Sacrifice by untruth
Not called
Rus' does not move,
Rus' is like dead!
And she caught fire
Hidden spark
They stood up - unwounded,
They came out - uninvited,
Live by the grain
The mountains have been destroyed!
The army is rising
Countless!
The strength in her will affect
Indestructible!
You're miserable too
You are also abundant
You're downtrodden
You are omnipotent
Mother Rus'!
A.A.Fet.“Distant friend, understand my sobs...” (“A. L. Brzeskoy”)
Distant friend, understand my sobs,
Forgive me for my painful cry.
Memories bloom in my soul with you,
And I haven’t lost the habit of cherishing you.
Who will tell us that we did not know how to live,
Soulless and idle minds,
That kindness and tenderness did not burn in us
And we didn’t sacrifice beauty?
Where is all this? The soul is still burning
Still ready to embrace the world.
Vain heat! Nobody is answering,
Sounds will resurrect and die again.
Only you are alone! High excitement
There is blood on the cheeks and inspiration in the heart. -
Get away from this dream - there are too many tears in it!
It’s not a pity for life with languid breathing,
What is life and death? What a pity about that fire
That shone over the whole universe,
And he goes into the night and cries as he leaves.
A.K. Tolstoy.“In the midst of a noisy ball, by chance...”
In the middle of a noisy ball, by chance,
In the anxiety of worldly vanity,
I saw you, but it's a mystery
Your features are covered.
Like the sound of a distant pipe,
Like a playing shaft of the sea.
I liked your thin figure
And your whole thoughtful look,
And your laughter, both sad and ringing,
Since then it has been ringing in my heart.
In the lonely hours of the night
I love, tired, to lie down -
I see sad eyes
I hear cheerful speech;
And sadly I fall asleep like that,
And I sleep in unknown dreams...
Do I love you - I don't know
But it seems to me that I love it!
L.N. Tolstoy. "War and Peace" (excerpt)
In captivity, in a booth, Pierre learned not with his mind, but with his whole being, life, that man was created for happiness, that happiness is in himself, in the satisfaction of natural human needs, and that all unhappiness comes not from lack, but from excess; but now, in these last three weeks of the campaign, he learned another new, comforting truth - he learned that there is nothing terrible in the world. He learned that since there is no situation in which a person would be happy and completely free, there is also no situation in which he would be unhappy and not free. He learned that there is a limit to suffering and a limit to freedom, and that this limit is very close; that the man who suffered because one leaf was wrapped in his pink bed suffered in the same way as he suffered now, falling asleep on the bare, damp earth, cooling one side and warming the other; that when he used to put on his narrow ballroom shoes, he suffered in exactly the same way as now, when he walked completely barefoot (his shoes had long since become disheveled), with feet covered with sores. He learned that when he, as it seemed to him, of his own free will, married his wife, he was no more free than now, when he was locked in the stable at night. Of all the things that he later called suffering, but which he hardly felt then, the main thing was his bare, worn, scabby feet.
A. Rimbaud."Closet"
Here is an old carved cabinet, whose oak has dark streaks
I began to look like kind old men a long time ago;
The closet is thrown open, and darkness comes from all the secluded corners
The enticing smell flows like old wine.
Full of everything: a pile of junk,
Pleasant-smelling yellow underwear,
Grandmother's scarf, where there is an image
Griffin, lace, and ribbons, and rags;
Here you will find medallions and portraits,
A strand of white hair and a strand of a different color,
Children's clothes, dried flowers...
O closet of bygone days! Lots of stories
And you keep many fairy tales safely
Behind this door, blackened and creaky.
Texts for reading at reading competitions prose works
Vasiliev B.L. And the dawns here are quiet. // Series “100 main books. Descendants, 2015
Swaying and stumbling, he wandered through the Sinyukhin ridge towards the Germans. The revolver with the last cartridge was tightly clutched in his hand, and all he wanted now was for the Germans to meet quickly and for him to have time to knock down another one. Because there was no more strength. There was no strength at all - only pain. Throughout the body...
White twilight floated quietly over the heated stones. The fog was already accumulating in the lowlands, the breeze had died down, and mosquitoes hung in a cloud over the foreman. And he imagined his girls, all five of them, in this whitish haze, and he kept whispering something and sadly shaking his head.
But there were still no Germans. They did not come across him, they did not shoot, although he walked heavily and openly and was looking for this meeting. It was time to end this war, it was time to put an end to it, and this last point was kept in the gray bore of his revolver.
He had no goal now, only desire. He did not circle, did not look for traces, but walked straight, as if wound up. But there were still no Germans...
He had already passed the pine forest and was now walking through the forest, every minute approaching the monastery of Legonta, where in the morning he had so easily obtained a weapon for himself. He didn’t think why he was going exactly there, but the unmistakable hunting instinct led him exactly this way, and he obeyed it. And, obeying him, he suddenly slowed down, listened, and slid into the bushes.
A hundred meters away a clearing began with a rotten frame of a well and a warped hut that had driven into the ground. And Vaskov walked this hundred meters silently and weightlessly. He knew that there was an enemy there, he knew precisely and inexplicably, like a wolf knows where a hare will jump out at him.
In the bushes near the clearing, he froze and stood for a long time, without moving, his eyes searching the log house, near which the German he had killed was no longer there, the rickety monastery, the dark bushes in the corners. There was nothing special there, nothing was noticed, but the foreman continued to wait patiently. And when a vague blur appeared slightly from the corner of the hut, he was not surprised. He already knew that the sentry was standing there.
He walked towards him for a long time, an endlessly long time. Slowly, as if in a dream, he raised his leg, weightlessly lowered it to the ground and did not step over it - he poured the weight drop by drop so that not a single twig would snap. In this strange bird dance, he walked around the clearing and found himself behind the motionless sentry. And even more slowly, even more smoothly, he moved towards this wide dark back. If he didn’t go, he swam.
And he stopped in his tracks. He held his breath for a long time and now waited for his heart to calm down. He had long ago put his revolver in his holster, held a knife in his right hand, and now, feeling the heavy smell of someone else’s body, he slowly, millimeter by millimeter, brought the weapon for one single, decisive blow.
And he was still gathering strength. There were few of them. Very little, and my left hand could no longer help.
He put everything into this blow, everything, to the last drop. The German almost didn’t cry out, he just sighed strangely and drawn out and knelt down on his knees. The sergeant major pulled open the crooked door and jumped into the hut.
- Hyundai hoh!..
And they were sleeping. We slept before the last rush to the iron. Only one was awake: he rushed to the corner, towards the weapon, but Vaskov caught his leap and put a bullet into the German almost point-blank. The roar hit the low ceiling, the Fritz was thrown into the wall, and the foreman suddenly forgot everything german words and just shouted hoarsely:
- Kick!.. Kick!.. Kick!..
And he cursed with dark words. The blackest I knew.
No, they were not afraid of the scream, or the grenade that the sergeant-major was waving. They just couldn’t think, they couldn’t even imagine in their thoughts that he was alone, alone for many miles. This concept did not fit into their fascist brains, and therefore they lay down on the floor, with their faces down, as ordered. All four lay down: the fifth, the quickest, was already in the next world.
And they tied each other with belts, carefully tied them, and Fedot Evgrafych personally tied the last one up. And he cried. Tears flowed down his dirty, unshaven face, he shook with chills, and laughed through these tears, and shouted:
- What, they took it?.. They took it, right?.. Five girls, there were five girls in total, only five! But you didn’t go through, you didn’t go anywhere and you’ll die here, you’ll all die!.. I’ll kill everyone personally, personally, even if the authorities have mercy! And then let them judge me! Let them judge!..
And his hand ached, ached so much that everything in him was burning and his thoughts were confused. And therefore he was especially afraid of losing consciousness and clung to it with all his might...
...He could never remember that last path. The German backs swayed in front, dangling from side to side, because Vaskov was staggering as if he were drunk. And he saw nothing except these four backs, and he only thought about one thing: to have time to press the trigger of the machine gun before he lost consciousness. And it hung on the last cobweb, and such pain burned throughout his whole body that he growled from the pain. He growled and cried: he was apparently completely exhausted...
But only then did he allow his consciousness to break off, when they called out to them and when he realized that his own people were coming towards them. Russians...
V.P.Kataev. Son of the Regiment // School Library, Moscow, Children's Literature, 1977
The scouts slowly moved towards their location.
Suddenly the elder stopped and raised his hand. At the same moment, the others also stopped, not taking their eyes off their commander. The elder stood for a long time, throwing his hood back from his head and turning his ear slightly in the direction from which he thought he heard a suspicious rustling. The eldest was a young man of about twenty-two. Despite his youth, he was already considered a seasoned soldier at the battery. He was a sergeant. His comrades loved him and at the same time were afraid of him.
The sound that attracted the attention of Sergeant Egorov - that was the surname of the senior - seemed very strange. Despite all his experience, Egorov could not understand its character and significance.
"What could it be?" - thought Yegorov, straining his ears and quickly turning over in his mind all the suspicious sounds that he had ever heard during night reconnaissance.
"Whisper! No. The cautious rustle of a shovel? No. File squealing? No".
A strange, quiet, intermittent sound unlike anything was heard somewhere very close, to the right, behind a juniper bush. It seemed like the sound was coming from somewhere underground.
After listening for another minute or two, Egorov, without turning around, gave a sign, and both scouts slowly and silently, like shadows, approached him closely. He pointed with his hand in the direction where the sound was coming from and motioned to listen. The scouts began to listen.
- Do you hear? – Yegorov asked with his lips alone.
“Hear,” one of the soldiers answered just as silently.
Egorov turned his thin dark face to his comrades, sadly illuminated by the moon. He raised his boyish eyebrows high.
- I don’t understand.
For some time the three of them stood and listened, putting their fingers on the triggers of their machine guns. The sounds continued and were just as incomprehensible. For one moment they suddenly changed their character. All three thought they heard singing coming out of the ground. They looked at each other. But immediately the sounds became the same.
Then Egorov signaled to lie down and lay down on his stomach on the leaves, already gray with frost. He took the dagger into his mouth and crawled, silently pulling himself up on his elbows, on his belly.
A minute later he disappeared behind a dark juniper bush, and after another minute, which seemed long, like an hour, the scouts heard a thin whistling. It meant that Egorov was calling them to him. They crawled and soon saw the sergeant, who was kneeling, looking into a small trench hidden among the junipers.
From the trench one could clearly hear muttering, sobbing, and sleepy moans. Without words, understanding each other, the scouts surrounded the trench and stretched out the ends of their raincoats with their hands so that they formed something like a tent that did not let in the light. Egorov lowered his hand with an electric flashlight into the trench.
The picture they saw was simple and at the same time terrible.
A boy was sleeping in the trench.
With his hands clenched on his chest, his bare feet, dark as potatoes, his legs tucked in, the boy lay in a green, stinking puddle and was heavily delirious in his sleep. His bare head, overgrown with long-uncut, dirty hair, was awkwardly thrown back. The thin throat trembled. Hoarse sighs flew out of a sunken mouth with fever-swept, inflamed lips. There was muttering, fragments of unintelligible words, and sobbing. The bulging eyelids of the closed eyes were an unhealthy, anemic color. They seemed almost blue, like skim milk. Short but thick eyelashes stuck together in arrows. The face was covered with scratches and bruises. A clot of dried blood was visible on the bridge of the nose.
The boy was sleeping, and reflections of the nightmares that haunted the boy in his sleep ran convulsively across his exhausted face. Every minute his face changed expression. Then it froze in horror; then inhuman despair distorted him; then sharp, deep features of hopeless grief erupted around his sunken mouth, his eyebrows rose like a house and tears rolled from his eyelashes; then suddenly the teeth began to grind furiously, the face became angry, merciless, the fists clenched with such force that the nails dug into the palms, and dull, hoarse sounds flew out of the tense throat. And then suddenly the boy would fall into unconsciousness, smile with a pitiful, completely childish and childishly helpless smile and begin to very weakly, barely audibly sing some kind of unintelligible song.
The boy's sleep was so heavy, so deep, his soul, wandering through the torments of dreams, was so far from his body that for some time he did not feel anything: neither the gaze of the scouts looking at him from above, nor bright light an electric flashlight, point-blank illuminating his face.
But suddenly the boy seemed to be hit from the inside, thrown up. He woke up, jumped up, and sat down. His eyes flashed wildly. In an instant, he pulled out a large sharpened nail from somewhere. With a deft, precise movement, Egorov managed to grab the boy’s hot hand and cover his mouth with his palm.
- Quiet. “Ours,” Yegorov said in a whisper.
Only now the boy noticed that the soldiers’ helmets were Russian, their machine guns were Russian, their raincoats were Russian, and the faces bending towards him were also Russian, family.
A joyful smile flashed palely on his exhausted face. He wanted to say something, but managed to utter only one word:
And he lost consciousness.
M. Prishvin. Blue dragonfly.// Sat. Prishvin M.M. “Green Noise”, series: My notebooks. M., Pravda, 1983
That first one world war In 1914, I went to the front as a war correspondent dressed as a medical orderly and soon found myself in a battle in the west in the Augustow Forests. I wrote down all my impressions in my own brief way, but I confess that not for one minute did the feeling of personal uselessness and the impossibility of my words catch up with the terrible things that were happening around me.
I walked along the road towards war and played with death: either a shell fell, exploding a deep crater, or a bullet buzzed like a bee, but I kept walking, curiously looking at the flocks of partridges flying from battery to battery.
I looked and saw the head of Maxim Maksimych: his bronze face with a gray mustache was stern and almost solemn. At the same time, the old captain managed to express both sympathy and patronage to me. A minute later I was slurping cabbage soup in his dugout. Soon, when the matter heated up, he shouted to me:
- How come you, you such-and-such a writer, aren’t you ashamed to be busy with your own trifles at such moments?
- What should I do? – I asked, very pleased by his decisive tone.
“Run immediately, pick up those people over there, order them to drag benches from the school, pick up and lay down the wounded.”
I lifted people, dragged benches, laid out the wounded, forgot the writer in me, and suddenly I finally felt like a real person, and I was so happy that here, in the war, I was not only a writer.
At this time, one dying man whispered to me:
- I wish I had some water.
At the first word from the wounded man, I ran for water.
But he didn’t drink and repeated to me:
- Water, water, stream.
I looked at him in amazement, and suddenly I understood everything: he was almost a boy with sparkling eyes, with thin, trembling lips that reflected the trembling of his soul.
The orderly and I took a stretcher and carried him to the bank of the stream. The orderly left, I was left face to face with the dying boy on the bank of a forest stream.
In the slanting rays of the evening sun, the minarets of horsetails, the leaves of telores, and water lilies glowed with a special green light, as if emanating from within the plants, and a blue dragonfly circled over the pool. And very close to us, where the creek ended, the trickles of the stream, joining on the pebbles, sang their usual beautiful song. The wounded man listened with his eyes closed, his bloodless lips moving convulsively, expressing a strong struggle. And then the struggle ended with a sweet childish smile, and the eyes opened.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Seeing a blue dragonfly flying by the creek, he smiled again, said thank you again, and closed his eyes again.
Some time passed in silence, when suddenly the lips moved again, a new struggle arose, and I heard:
- What, she still flies?
The blue dragonfly was still circling.
“It flies,” I answered, “and how!”
He smiled again and fell into oblivion.
Meanwhile, little by little it grew dark, and I, too, flew far away with my thoughts and forgot myself. When suddenly I hear him ask:
– Still flying?
“It flies,” I said, without looking, without thinking.
- Why don’t I see? – he asked, opening his eyes with difficulty.
I was afraid. I once happened to see a dying man who, before his death, suddenly lost his sight, but still spoke to us quite intelligently. Isn’t it the same here: his eyes died earlier. But I myself looked at the place where the dragonfly was flying and saw nothing.
The patient realized that I had deceived him, was upset by my inattention and silently closed his eyes.
I felt pain, and suddenly I saw clean water reflection of a flying dragonfly. We could not notice it against the background of the darkening forest, but the water - these eyes of the earth remain light even when it gets dark: these eyes seem to see in the darkness.
- It flies, it flies! – I exclaimed so decisively, so joyfully that the patient immediately opened his eyes.
And I showed him the reflection. And he smiled.
I will not describe how we saved this wounded man - apparently, the doctors saved him. But I firmly believe: they, the doctors, were helped by the song of the stream and my decisive and excited words that the blue dragonfly flew over the creek in the dark.
A.Platonov. Unknown flower.
And one day a seed fell from the wind, and it nestled in a hole between stone and clay. This seed languished for a long time, and then it became saturated with dew, disintegrated, released thin root hairs, stuck them into the stone and clay and began to grow. This is how that little flower began to live in the world. There was nothing for him to eat in stone and clay; drops of rain that fell from the sky fell over the top of the earth and did not penetrate to its root, but the flower lived and lived and grew little by little higher. He raised the leaves against the wind, and the wind died down near the flower; specks of dust fell from the wind onto the clay, which the wind brought from the black, fat earth; and in those dust particles there was food for the flower, but the dust particles were dry. To moisten them, the flower guarded the dew all night and collected it drop by drop on its leaves. And when the leaves became heavy with dew, the flower lowered them, and the dew fell down; it moistened the black earthen dust that the wind brought and corroded the dead clay. During the day the flower was guarded by the wind, and at night by the dew. He worked day and night to live and not die. He grew his leaves large so that they could stop the wind and collect dew. However, it was difficult for the flower to feed only from dust particles that fell from the wind, and also to collect dew for them. But he needed life and overcame his pain from hunger and fatigue with patience. Only once a day did the flower rejoice: when the first ray of the morning sun touched its tired leaves. If the wind did not come to the wasteland for a long time, then the little flower became ill, and it no longer had enough strength to live and grow. The flower, however, did not want to live sadly; therefore, when he was completely sad, he dozed off. Still, he constantly tried to grow, even if his roots gnawed at bare stone and dry clay. At such a time, its leaves could not be saturated with full strength and become green: one vein was blue, another red, the third blue or gold. This happened because the flower lacked food, and its torment was indicated in the leaves. different colors. The flower itself, however, did not know this: after all, it was blind and did not see itself as it is. In mid-summer the flower opened its corolla at the top. Before that, it looked like grass, but now it has become a real flower. Its corolla was composed of the petals of a simple light color, clear and strong, like a star. And, like a star, it shone with a living, flickering fire, and it was visible even on a dark night. And when the wind came to the wasteland, it always touched the flower and carried its smell with it. And then one morning the girl Dasha was walking past that vacant lot. She lived with her friends in a pioneer camp, and this morning she woke up and missed her mother. She wrote a letter to her mother and took the letter to the station so that it would arrive quickly. On the way, Dasha kissed the envelope with the letter and envied him that he would see his mother sooner than she did. At the edge of the wasteland, Dasha felt a fragrance. She looked around. There were no flowers nearby, only small grass grew along the path, and the wasteland was completely bare; but the wind came from the wasteland and brought from there a quiet smell, like the calling voice of a small unknown life. Dasha remembered one fairy tale, her mother told her a long time ago. The mother spoke about a flower that was always sad for its mother - a rose, but it could not cry, and only in the fragrance did its sadness pass. “Maybe this flower misses its mother there, like me,” Dasha thought. She went into the wasteland and saw that small flower near the stone. Dasha has never seen such a flower before - neither in the field, nor in the forest, nor in the book in the picture, nor in botanical garden, nowhere. She sat down on the ground near the flower and asked him: “Why are you like this?” “I don’t know,” answered the flower. - Why are you different from others? The flower again did not know what to say. But for the first time he heard a person’s voice so close, for the first time someone looked at him, and he did not want to offend Dasha with silence. “Because it’s difficult for me,” answered the flower. - What is your name? - Dasha asked. “Nobody calls me,” said the little flower, “I live alone.” Dasha looked around in the wasteland. - Here is a stone, here is clay! - she said. - How do you live alone, how did you grow from clay and not die, you little one? “I don’t know,” answered the flower. Dasha leaned towards him and kissed his glowing head. The next day, all the pioneers came to visit the little flower. Dasha led them, but long before reaching the vacant lot, she ordered everyone to take a breath and said: “Hear how good it smells.” That's how he breathes.
The pioneers stood around the small flower for a long time and admired it like a hero. Then they walked around the entire wasteland, measured it in steps and counted how many wheelbarrows with manure and ash needed to be brought in to fertilize the dead clay. They wanted the land in the wasteland to become good. Then the little flower, unknown by name, will rest, and from its seeds beautiful children will grow and will not die, the best flowers shining with light, which are not found anywhere. The pioneers worked for four days, fertilizing the land in the wasteland. And after that they went traveling to other fields and forests and never came to the wasteland again. Only Dasha came one day to say goodbye to the little flower. Summer was already ending, the pioneers had to go home, and they left. And the next summer Dasha came again to the same pioneer camp. Throughout the long winter, she remembered a small flower, unknown by name. And she immediately went to the vacant lot to check on him. Dasha saw that the wasteland was now different, it was now overgrown with herbs and flowers, and birds and butterflies were flying over it. The flowers gave off a fragrance, the same as from that little working flower. However, last year's flower, which lived between the stone and clay, was no longer there. He must have died last fall. The new flowers were also good; they were only a little worse than that first flower. And Dasha felt sad that the old flower was no longer there. She walked back and suddenly stopped. Between two close stones a new flower grew - exactly the same as that old flower, only a little better and even more beautiful. This flower grew from the middle of the crowded stones; he was lively and patient, like his father, and even stronger than his father, because he lived in stone. It seemed to Dasha that the flower was reaching out to her, that it was calling her to itself with the silent voice of its fragrance.
G. Andersen. Nightingale.
And suddenly a wonderful singing was heard outside the window. It was a small living nightingale. He learned that the emperor was ill and flew in to console and encourage him. He sat on a branch and sang, and scary ghosts Those who surrounded the emperor grew pale and pale, and the blood flowed faster and hotter to the emperor’s heart.
Death itself listened to the nightingale and only quietly repeated:
Sing, nightingale! Sing again!
Will you give me a precious saber for this? And the banner? And the crown? - asked the nightingale.
Death nodded his head and gave away one treasure after another, and the nightingale sang and sang. So he sang a song about a quiet cemetery, where elderberries bloom, white roses smell fragrant, and the fresh grass on the graves sparkles with the tears of the living, mourning their loved ones. Then Death so wanted to return to his home, to the quiet cemetery, that he wrapped himself in a white cold fog and flew out the window.
Thank you, dear bird! - said the emperor. - How can I reward you?
“You have already rewarded me,” said the nightingale. - I saw tears in your eyes when I sang in front of you for the first time - I will never forget this. Sincere tears of delight are the most precious reward for a singer!
And he sang again, and the emperor fell into a healthy, sound sleep.
And when he woke up, the sun was already shining brightly through the window. None of the courtiers and servants even looked at the emperor. Everyone thought he was dead. One nightingale did not leave the sick man. He sat outside the window and sang even better than always.
Stay with me! - asked the emperor. - You will sing only when you want.
I can't live in a palace. I will fly to you whenever I want, and I will sing about happy and unhappy, about good and evil, about everything that is happening around you and that you do not know. A small songbird flies everywhere - it flies under the roof of a poor peasant’s hut, and into a fisherman’s house, which are so far from your palace. I will fly and sing to you! But promise me...
All you want! - the emperor exclaimed and got out of bed.
He had already put on his imperial robe and was clutching a heavy golden saber to his heart.
Promise me not to tell anyone that you have a little bird who tells you about the whole big world. This way things will go better.
And the nightingale flew away.
Then the courtiers entered, they gathered to look at the deceased emperor, and they froze on the threshold.
And the emperor said to them:
Hello! Good morning!
Sunny day at the very beginning of summer. I am wandering not far from home, in a birch forest. Everything around seems to be bathing, splashing in golden waves of warmth and light. Birch branches flow above me. The leaves on them seem either emerald green or completely golden. And below, under the birches, light bluish shadows also run and flow across the grass, like waves. And the light bunnies, like reflections of the sun in the water, run one after another along the grass, along the path.
The sun is both in the sky and on the ground... And this makes it feel so good, so fun that you want to run away somewhere into the distance, to where the trunks of young birch trees sparkle with their dazzling whiteness.
And suddenly from this sunny distance I heard a familiar forest voice: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”
Cuckoo! I've heard it many times before, but I've never even seen it in a picture. What is she like? For some reason she seemed plump and big-headed to me, like an owl. But maybe she's not like that at all? I'll run and have a look.
Alas, it turned out to be far from easy. I go to her voice. And she will fall silent, and then again: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku,” but in a completely different place.
How can you see her? I stopped in thought. Or maybe she's playing hide and seek with me? She's hiding, and I'm looking. Let's play it the other way around: now I'll hide, and you look.
I climbed into the hazel bush and also cuckooed once and twice. The cuckoo has fallen silent, maybe it’s looking for me? I sit in silence and even my heart is pounding with excitement. And suddenly, somewhere nearby: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”
I am silent: better look, don’t shout to the whole forest.
And she’s already very close: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”
I look: some kind of bird is flying across the clearing, its tail is long, it is gray, only its chest is covered in dark speckles. Probably a hawk. This one in our yard hunts sparrows. He flew up to a nearby tree, sat down on a branch, bent down and shouted: “Kuk-ku, kuk-ku!”
Cuckoo! That's it! This means that she does not look like an owl, but like a hawk.
I'll crow out of the bush in response to her! Out of fright, she almost fell out of the tree, immediately darted down from the branch, scurried off somewhere into the thicket of the forest, and that was all I saw.
But I don’t need to see her anymore. So I solved the forest riddle, and besides, for the first time I spoke to the bird in its native language.
So the clear forest voice of the cuckoo revealed to me the first secret of the forest. And since then, for half a century, I have been wandering in winter and summer along remote untrodden paths and discovering more and more new secrets. And there is no end to these winding paths, and there is no end to the secrets of our native nature.
G. Skrebitsky. Four artists
Four wizard-painters somehow came together: Winter, Spring, Summer and Autumn; They got together and argued: which of them draws better? They argued and argued and decided to choose the Red Sun as the judge: “It lives high in the sky, it has seen many wonderful things in its lifetime, let it judge us.”
Sunny agreed to be a judge. The painters got to work. The first to volunteer to paint a picture was Zimushka-Winter.
“Only Sunny shouldn’t look at my work,” she decided. “She shouldn’t see it until I finish.”
Winter has stretched gray clouds across the sky and let's cover the earth with fresh fluffy snow! One day I decorated everything around me.
The fields and hills turned white. The river became covered with thin ice, became silent, and fell asleep, like in a fairy tale.
Winter walks through the mountains, through the valleys, walking in large soft felt boots, stepping quietly, inaudibly. And she herself looks around - here and there she will correct her magical picture.
Here is a hillock in the middle of a field, the prankster took the wind from it and blew away his white cap. I need to put it on again. And over there a gray hare is sneaking between the bushes. It’s bad for him, the gray one: on the white snow, a predatory animal or bird will immediately notice him, you can’t hide from them anywhere.
“Dress yourself, sideways, in a white fur coat,” Winter decided, “then you won’t be noticed in the snow soon.”
But Lisa Patrikeevna has no need to dress in white. She lives in a deep hole, hiding underground from enemies. She just needs to be dressed up more beautifully and warmly.
Winter had prepared a wonderful fur coat for her, it was simply amazing: all bright red, like a fire! The fox will move its fluffy tail, as if it would scatter sparks across the snow.
Winter looked into the forest. “I’ll decorate it so much that the Sun will fall in love!”
She dressed the pines and spruce trees in heavy snow coats; she pulled snow-white hats down to their eyebrows; I put downy mittens on the branches. The forest heroes stand next to each other, stand decorously, calmly.
And below them, various bushes and young trees took refuge. Winter also dressed them, like children, in white fur coats.
And she threw a white blanket over the mountain ash that grows at the edge of the forest. It turned out so well! At the ends of the rowan branches, clusters of berries hang, like red earrings visible from under a white blanket.
Under the trees, Winter painted all the snow with a pattern of different footprints and footprints. Here is a hare's footprint: in front there are two large paw prints next to each other, and behind - one after the other - two small ones; and the fox - as if drawn by a thread: paw into paw, so it stretches in a chain; and the gray wolf ran through the forest, also leaving his prints. But the bear’s footprint is nowhere to be seen, and no wonder: Zimushka-Winter Toptygina built a cozy den in the thicket of the forest, covered the target with a thick snow blanket on top: sleep well! And he is happy to try - he doesn’t crawl out of the den. That’s why you can’t see a bear’s footprint in the forest.
But it’s not just animal tracks that can be seen in the snow. In a forest clearing, where green lingonberry and blueberry bushes stick out, the snow, like crosses, is trampled by bird tracks. These are chickens of the woods - hazel grouse and black grouse - running around the clearing here, pecking at the remaining berries.
Yes, here they are: black grouse, motley hazel grouse and black grouse. On the white snow how beautiful they all are!
The picture of the winter forest turned out well, not dead, but alive! Either a gray squirrel will jump from twig to twig, or a spotted woodpecker, sitting on the trunk of an old tree, will begin to knock out seeds from a pine cone. He’ll stick it into the crevice and hit it with his beak!
Lives winter forest. Snowy fields and valleys live. The whole picture of the gray-haired sorceress - Winter - lives on. You can show it to Sunny too.
The sun parted the blue cloud. He looks at the winter forest, at the valleys... And under his gentle gaze everything around him becomes even more beautiful.
The snow flared up and glowed. Blue, red, green lights lit up on the ground, on the bushes, on the trees. And the breeze blew, shook off the frost from the branches, and multi-colored lights also sparkled and danced in the air.
It turned out to be a wonderful picture! Perhaps you couldn’t draw it better.
Excerpt from the story
Chapter II
My mommy
I had a mother, affectionate, kind, sweet. My mother and I lived in a small house on the banks of the Volga. The house was so clean and bright, and from the windows of our apartment we could see the wide, beautiful Volga, and huge two-story steamships, and barges, and a pier on the shore, and crowds of people walking who came out to this pier at certain hours to meet the arriving ships... And mommy and I went there, only rarely, very rarely: mommy gave lessons in our city, and she was not allowed to walk with me as often as I would like. Mommy said:
Wait, Lenusha, I’ll save up some money and take you along the Volga from our Rybinsk all the way to Astrakhan! Then we'll have a blast.
I was happy and waiting for spring.
By spring, mommy had saved up some money, and we decided to carry out our idea on the first warm days.
- As soon as the Volga is cleared of ice, you and I will go for a ride! - Mommy said, affectionately stroking my head.
But when the ice broke, she caught a cold and began to cough. The ice passed, the Volga cleared, but mommy coughed and coughed endlessly. She suddenly became thin and transparent, like wax, and she kept sitting by the window, looking at the Volga and repeating:
“The cough will go away, I’ll get better a little, and you and I will ride to Astrakhan, Lenusha!”
But the cough and cold did not go away; The summer was damp and cold this year, and every day mommy became thinner, paler and more transparent.
Autumn has come. September has arrived. Long lines of cranes stretched over the Volga, flying to warm countries. Mommy no longer sat by the window in the living room, but lay on the bed and shivered all the time from the cold, while she herself was hot as fire.
Once she called me over and said:
- Listen, Lenusha. Your mother will soon leave you forever... But don’t worry, dear. I will always look at you from heaven and rejoice at you good deeds my girl, uh...
I didn’t let her finish and cried bitterly. And mommy started crying too, and her eyes became sad, sad, just like those of the angel I saw on the big icon in our church.
Having calmed down a little, mommy spoke again:
- I feel that the Lord will soon take me to Himself, and may His holy will be done! Be a smart girl without a mother, pray to God and remember me... You will go to live with your uncle, my brother, who lives in St. Petersburg... I wrote to him about you and asked him to shelter an orphan...
Something painfully painful when hearing the word “orphan” squeezed my throat...
I began to sob, cry and huddle by my mother’s bed. Maryushka (the cook who lived with us for nine years, from the very year I was born, and who loved mommy and me madly) came and took me to her place, saying that “mama needs peace.”
I fell asleep in tears that night on Maryushka’s bed, and in the morning... Oh, what happened in the morning!..
I woke up very early, I think around six o’clock, and wanted to run straight to mommy.
At that moment Maryushka came in and said:
- Pray to God, Lenochka: God took your mother to him. Your mom died.
- Mommy died! - I repeated like an echo.
And suddenly I felt so cold, cold! Then there was a noise in my head, and the whole room, and Maryushka, and the ceiling, and the table, and the chairs - everything turned over and began to spin before my eyes, and I no longer remember what happened to me after this. I think I fell on the floor unconscious...
I woke up when my mother was already lying in a large white box, in a white dress, with a white wreath on her head. An old gray-haired priest read prayers, the singers sang, and Maryushka prayed at the threshold of the bedroom. Some old women came and also prayed, then looked at me with regret, shook their heads and mumbled something with their toothless mouths...
- Orphan! Orphan! - Also shaking her head and looking at me pitifully, Maryushka said and cried. The old women also cried...
On the third day, Maryushka took me to the white box in which Mommy was lying and told me to kiss Mommy’s hand. Then the priest blessed mommy, the singers sang something very sad; some men came up, closed the white box and carried it out of our house...
I cried loudly. But then old women I already knew arrived, saying that they were going to bury my mother and that there was no need to cry, but to pray.
The white box was brought to the church, we held mass, and then some people came up again, picked up the box and carried it to the cemetery. A deep black hole had already been dug there, into which mother’s coffin was lowered. Then they covered the hole with earth, placed a white cross over it, and Maryushka led me home.
On the way, she told me that in the evening she would take me to the station, put me on a train and send me to St. Petersburg to see my uncle.
“I don’t want to go to my uncle,” I said gloomily, “I don’t know any uncle and I’m afraid to go to him!”
But Maryushka said that it was a shame to tell the big girl like that, that mommy heard it and that my words hurt her.
Then I became quiet and began to remember my uncle’s face.
I never saw my St. Petersburg uncle, but there was a portrait of him in my mother’s album. He was depicted on it in a gold embroidered uniform, with many orders and with a star on his chest. He looked very important, and I was involuntarily afraid of him.
After dinner, which I barely touched, Maryushka packed all my dresses and underwear into an old suitcase, gave me tea and took me to the station.
Lydia Charskaya
NOTES OF A LITTLE GYMNASIUM STUDENT
Excerpt from the story
Chapter XXI
To the sound of the wind and the whistle of a snowstorm
The wind whistled, screeched, groaned and hummed in different ways. Either in a plaintive thin voice, or in a rough bass rumble, he sang his battle song. The lanterns flickered barely noticeably through the huge white flakes of snow that fell abundantly on the sidewalks, on the street, on carriages, horses and passers-by. And I kept walking and walking, forward and forward...
Nyurochka told me:
“You first have to go through a long, big street, where there are such tall houses and luxurious shops, then turn right, then left, then right again and left again, and then everything is straight, straight to the very end - to our house. You will recognize it right away. It’s near the cemetery, there’s also a white church... so beautiful.”
I did so. Everything went straight, as it seemed to me, along a long and wide street, but I didn’t see any tall buildings or luxury shops. Everything was obscured from my eyes by a white, shroud-like, living, loose wall of silently falling huge flakes of snow. I turned right, then left, then right again, doing everything with precision, as Nyurochka told me - and I kept walking, walking, walking endlessly.
The wind mercilessly ruffled the flaps of my burnusik, piercing me through and through with cold. Snow flakes hit my face. Now I was no longer walking as fast as before. My legs felt like they were filled with lead from fatigue, my whole body was shaking from the cold, my hands were numb, and I could barely move my fingers. Having turned right and left almost for the fifth time, I now went along the straight path. The quiet, barely noticeable flickering lights of lanterns came across me less and less often... The noise from the riding of horse-drawn horses and carriages in the streets died down significantly, and the path along which I walked seemed dull and deserted to me.
Finally the snow began to thin out; huge flakes did not fall so often now. The distance cleared up a little, but instead there was such a thick twilight all around me that I could barely make out the road.
Now neither the noise of driving, nor voices, nor the coachman's exclamations could be heard around me.
What silence! What dead silence!..
But what is it?
My eyes, already accustomed to the semi-darkness, now discern the surroundings. Lord, where am I?
No houses, no streets, no carriages, no pedestrians. In front of me is an endless, huge expanse of snow... Some forgotten buildings along the edges of the road... Some fences, and in front of me is something black, huge. It must be a park or a forest - I don’t know.
I turned back... Lights flashed behind me... lights... lights... So many of them! Without end... without counting!
- Lord, this is a city! The city, of course! - I exclaim. - And I went to the outskirts...
Nyurochka said that they live on the outskirts. Yes of course! What darkens in the distance is the cemetery! There is a church there, and, just a short distance away, their house! Everything, everything turned out just as she said. But I was scared! What a stupid thing!
And with joyful inspiration I again walked forward vigorously.
But it was not there!
My legs could hardly obey me now. I could barely move them from fatigue. The incredible cold made me tremble from head to toe, my teeth chattered, there was a noise in my head, and something hit my temples with all its might. Added to all this was some strange drowsiness. I wanted to sleep so badly, I wanted to sleep so badly!
“Well, well, a little more - and you will be with your friends, you will see Nikifor Matveevich, Nyura, their mother, Seryozha!” - I mentally encouraged myself as best I could...
But this didn’t help either.
My legs could barely move, and now I had difficulty pulling them, first one, then the other, out of the deep snow. But they move more and more slowly, more and more quietly... And the noise in my head becomes more and more audible, and something hits my temples stronger and stronger...
Finally, I can’t stand it and fall onto a snowdrift that has formed on the edge of the road.
Oh, how good! How sweet it is to relax like this! Now I don’t feel tired or pain... Some kind of pleasant warmth spreads throughout my whole body... Oh, how good! I could just sit here and never leave! And if it weren’t for the desire to find out what happened to Nikifor Matveyevich, and to visit him, healthy or sick, I would certainly fall asleep here for an hour or two... I fell asleep soundly! Moreover, the cemetery is not far away... You can see it there. A mile or two, no more...
The snow stopped falling, the blizzard subsided a little, and the month emerged from behind the clouds.
Oh, it would be better if the moon didn’t shine and at least I wouldn’t know the sad reality!
No cemetery, no church, no houses - there is nothing ahead!.. Only the forest turns black like a huge black spot there in the distance, and the white dead field spreads around me like an endless veil...
Horror overwhelmed me.
Now I just realized that I was lost.
Lev Tolstoy
Swans
The swans flew in a herd from the cold side to the warm lands. They flew across the sea. They flew day and night, and another day and another night, without resting, they flew over the water. There was a full month in the sky, and the swans saw blue water far below them. All the swans were exhausted, flapping their wings; but they did not stop and flew on. Old, strong swans flew in front, and those who were younger and weaker flew behind. One young swan flew behind everyone. His strength weakened. He flapped his wings and could not fly any further. Then he, spreading his wings, went down. He descended closer and closer to the water; and his comrades further and further became whiter in the monthly light. The swan descended onto the water and folded its wings. The sea rose beneath him and rocked him. A flock of swans was barely visible as a white line in the light sky. And in the silence you could barely hear the sound of their wings ringing. When they were completely out of sight, the swan bent its neck back and closed its eyes. He did not move, and only the sea, rising and falling in a wide strip, raised and lowered him. Before dawn, a light breeze began to sway the sea. And the water splashed into the white chest of the swan. The swan opened his eyes. The dawn reddened in the east, and the moon and stars became paler. The swan sighed, stretched out its neck and flapped its wings, rose up and flew, clinging to the water with its wings. He rose higher and higher and flew alone over the dark, rippling waves.
Paulo Coelho
Parable "The Secret of Happiness"
One merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of all people. The young man walked forty days through the desert and
Finally, he came to a beautiful castle that stood on the top of the mountain. There lived the sage whom he was looking for. However, instead of the expected meeting with a wise man, our hero found himself in a hall where everything was seething: merchants were coming in and out, people were talking in the corner, a small orchestra was playing sweet melodies and there was a table laden with the most exquisite dishes of the area. The sage talked with different people, and the young man had to wait about two hours for his turn.
The sage listened carefully to the young man's explanations about the purpose of his visit, but said in response that he did not have time to reveal to him the Secret of Happiness. And he invited him to take a walk around the palace and come again in two hours.
“However, I want to ask for one favor,” the sage added, handing the young man a small spoon into which he dropped two drops of oil. — Keep this spoon in your hand the entire time you walk so that the oil does not spill out.
The young man began to go up and down the palace stairs, not taking his eyes off the spoon. Two hours later he returned to the sage.
“Well,” he asked, “have you seen the Persian carpets that are in my dining room?” Have you seen the park that the head gardener took ten years to create? Have you noticed the beautiful parchments in my library?
The young man, embarrassed, had to admit that he did not see anything. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the sage entrusted to him.
“Well, come back and get acquainted with the wonders of my Universe,” the sage told him. “You can’t trust a person if you don’t know the house in which he lives.”
Reassured, the young man took the spoon and again went for a walk around the palace; this time, paying attention to all the works of art hanging on the walls and ceilings of the palace. He saw gardens surrounded by mountains, the most delicate flowers, the sophistication with which each piece of art was placed exactly where it was needed.
Returning to the sage, he described in detail everything he saw.
- Where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you? - asked the Sage.
And the young man, looking at the spoon, discovered that all the oil had poured out.
- This is the only advice I can give you: The secret of Happiness is to look at all the wonders of the world, while never forgetting about two drops of oil in your spoon.
Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "NEVOD"
And once again the seine brought a rich catch. The fishermen's baskets were filled to the brim with chubs, carp, tench, pike, eels and a variety of other food items. Whole fish families
with their children and household members, were taken to market stalls and prepared to end their existence, writhing in agony on hot frying pans and in boiling cauldrons.
The remaining fish in the river, confused and gripped by fear, not even daring to swim, buried themselves deeper in the mud. How to live further? You can't handle the net alone. He is abandoned every day in the most unexpected places. He mercilessly destroys the fish, and eventually the entire river will be devastated.
- We must think about the fate of our children. No one but us will take care of them and deliver them from this terrible obsession,” reasoned the minnows who had gathered for a council under a large snag.
“But what can we do?” the tench asked timidly, listening to the speeches of the daredevils.
- Destroy the seine! - the minnows responded in unison. On the same day, the all-knowing nimble eels spread the news along the river
about making a bold decision. All fish, young and old, were invited to gather tomorrow at dawn in a deep, quiet pool, protected by spreading willows.
Thousands of fish of all colors and ages swam to the appointed place to declare war on the net.
- Listen carefully, everyone! - said the carp, which more than once managed to gnaw through the nets and escape from captivity. “The net is as wide as our river.” To keep it upright under water, lead weights are attached to its lower nodes. I order all the fish to split into two schools. The first should lift the sinkers from the bottom to the surface, and the second flock will firmly hold the upper nodes of the net. The pikes are tasked with chewing through the ropes with which the net is attached to both banks.
With bated breath, the fish listened to every word of their leader.
- I order the eels to immediately go on reconnaissance! - continued the carp. - They must establish where the net is thrown.
The eels went on a mission, and schools of fish huddled near the shore in agonizing anticipation. Meanwhile, the minnows tried to encourage the most timid and advised not to panic, even if someone fell into the net: after all, the fishermen would still not be able to pull him ashore.
Finally the eels returned and reported that the net had already been abandoned about a mile down the river.
And so, in a huge armada, schools of fish swam to the goal, led by the wise carp.
“Swim carefully!” the leader warned. “Keep your eyes open so that the current does not drag you into the net.” Use your fins as hard as you can and brake on time!
A seine appeared ahead, gray and ominous. Seized by a fit of anger, the fish boldly rushed to attack.
Soon the seine was lifted from the bottom, the ropes holding it were cut by sharp pike teeth, and the knots were torn. But the angry fish did not calm down and continued to attack the hated enemy. Grasping the crippled, leaky net with their teeth and working hard with their fins and tails, they dragged it in different directions and tore it into small pieces. The water in the river seemed to be boiling.
The fishermen spent a long time scratching their heads about the mysterious disappearance of the net, and the fish still proudly tell this story to their children.
Leonardo da Vinci
Parable "PELICAN"
As soon as the pelican went in search of food, the viper sitting in ambush immediately crawled, stealthily, to its nest. The fluffy chicks slept peacefully, not knowing anything. The snake crawled close to them. Her eyes sparkled with an ominous gleam - and the reprisal began.
Having received a fatal bite each, the serenely sleeping chicks never woke up.
Satisfied with what she had done, the villainess crawled into hiding to enjoy the bird’s grief to the fullest.
Soon the pelican returned from hunting. At the sight of the brutal massacre committed against the chicks, he burst into loud sobs, and all the inhabitants of the forest fell silent, shocked by the unheard-of cruelty.
“I have no life without you now!” lamented the unhappy father, looking at the dead children. “Let me die with you!”
And he began to tear his chest with his beak, right to the heart. Hot blood streams gushed from the open wound, sprinkling the lifeless chicks.
Losing his last strength, the dying pelican cast a farewell glance at the nest with the dead chicks and suddenly shuddered in surprise.
Oh miracle! His shed blood and parental love brought dear chicks back to life, snatching them from the clutches of death. And then, happy, he gave up the ghost.
Lucky
Sergey Silin
Antoshka was running down the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets, tripped and, falling, managed to think: “I’ll break my nose!” But he didn’t have time to take his hands out of his pockets.
And suddenly, right in front of him, out of nowhere, a small, strong man the size of a cat appeared.
The man stretched out his arms and took Antoshka on them, softening the blow.
Antoshka rolled onto his side, got up on one knee and looked at the peasant in surprise:
- Who are you?
- Lucky.
-Who-who?
- Lucky. I will make sure that you are lucky.
- Does every person have a lucky person? - Antoshka asked.
“No, there aren’t that many of us,” the man answered. “We just go from one to the other.” From today I will be with you.
- I'm starting to get lucky! - Antoshka was happy.
- Exactly! - Lucky nodded.
- When will you leave me for someone else?
- When necessary. I remember I served one merchant for several years. And I helped one pedestrian for only two seconds.
- Yeah! - Antoshka thought. - So I need
anything to wish?
- No no! - The man raised his hands in protest. - I am not a wish-fulfiller! I just give a little help to the smart and hardworking. I just stay nearby and make sure the person is lucky. Where did my invisibility cap go?
He groped around with his hands, felt for the invisibility cap, put it on and disappeared.
- Are you here? - Antoshka asked, just in case.
“Here, here,” responded Lucky. - Don't mind
me attention. Antoshka put his hands in his pockets and ran home. And he was lucky: he made it to the beginning of the cartoon minute by minute!
An hour later my mother returned from work.
- And I received a prize! - she said with a smile. -
I'll go shopping!
And she went into the kitchen to get some bags.
- Mom got Lucky too? - Antoshka asked his assistant in a whisper.
- No. She's lucky because we're close.
- Mom, I'm with you! - Antoshka shouted.
Two hours later they returned home with a whole mountain of purchases.
- Just a streak of luck! - Mom was surprised, her eyes sparkling. - All my life I dreamed of such a blouse!
- And I’m talking about such a cake! - Antoshka responded cheerfully from the bathroom.
The next day at school he received three A's, two B's, found two rubles and made peace with Vasya Poteryashkin.
And when he returned home whistling, he discovered that he had lost the keys to the apartment.
- Lucky, where are you? - he called.
A tiny, scruffy woman peeked out from under the stairs. Her hair was disheveled, her nose, her dirty sleeve was torn, her shoes were asking for porridge.
- There was no need to whistle! - she smiled and added: “I’m unlucky!” What, you're upset, right?..
Don't worry, don't worry! The time will come, they will call me away from you!
“I see,” Antoshka said sadly. - A streak of bad luck begins...
- That's for sure! - Bad luck nodded joyfully and, stepping into the wall, disappeared.
In the evening, Antoshka received a scolding from his dad for losing his key, accidentally broke his mother’s favorite cup, forgot what he was assigned in Russian, and couldn’t finish reading a book of fairy tales because he left it at school.
And just in front of the window the phone rang:
- Antoshka, is that you? It's me, Lucky!
- Hello, traitor! - Antoshka muttered. - And who are you helping now?
But Lucky wasn’t the least bit offended by the “traitor.”
- To an old lady. Can you imagine, she had bad luck all her life! So my boss sent me to her.
Soon I will help her win a million rubles in the lottery, and I will return to you!
- Is it true? - Antoshka was happy.
“True, true,” answered Lucky and hung up.
That night Antoshka had a dream. It’s as if she and Lucky are dragging four string bags of Antoshka’s favorite tangerines from the store, and from the window of the house opposite, a lonely old woman smiles at them, lucky for the first time in her life.
Charskaya Lidiya Alekseevna
Lucina's life
Princess Miguel
“Far, far away, at the very end of the world, there was a large, beautiful blue lake, similar in color to a huge sapphire. In the middle of this lake, on a green emerald island, among myrtle and wisteria, intertwined with green ivy and flexible vines, stood a high rock. On it stood a marble a palace, behind which there was a wonderful garden, fragrant with fragrance. It was a very special garden, which can only be found in fairy tales.
The owner of the island and the lands adjacent to it was the powerful king Ovar. And the king had a daughter, the beautiful Miguel, a princess, growing up in the palace...
A fairy tale floats and unfolds like a motley ribbon. A series of beautiful, fantastic pictures swirl before my spiritual gaze. Aunt Musya’s usually ringing voice is now reduced to a whisper. Mysterious and cozy in the green ivy gazebo. The lacy shadow of the trees and bushes surrounding her cast moving spots on the pretty face of the young storyteller. This fairy tale is my favorite. Since the day my dear nanny Fenya, who knew how to tell me so well about the girl Thumbelina, left us, I have listened with pleasure to the only fairy tale about Princess Miguel. I love my princess dearly, despite all her cruelty. Is it her fault, this green-eyed, soft pink and golden-haired princess, that when she was born, the fairies, instead of a heart, put a piece of diamond in her small childish breast? And that the direct consequence of this was the complete absence of pity in the princess’s soul. But how beautiful she was! Beautiful even in those moments when, with the movement of her tiny white hand, she sent people to a cruel death. Those people who accidentally ended up in the princess’s mysterious garden.
In that garden, among the roses and lilies, there were small children. Motionless pretty elves chained with silver chains to golden pegs, they guarded that garden, and at the same time they plaintively rang with their bell-like voices.
Let us go free! Let go, beautiful princess Miguel! Let us go! - Their complaints sounded like music. And this music had a pleasant effect on the princess, and she often laughed at the pleas of her little captives.
But their plaintive voices touched the hearts of people passing by the garden. And they looked into the princess’s mysterious garden. Ah, it was no joy that they appeared here! With each such appearance of an uninvited guest, the guards ran out, grabbed the visitor and, on the orders of the princess, threw him into the lake from a cliff
And Princess Miguel laughed only in response to the desperate cries and groans of the drowning...
Even now I still cannot understand how my pretty, cheerful aunt came up with a fairy tale so terrible in essence, so gloomy and heavy! The heroine of this fairy tale, Princess Miguel, was, of course, an invention of the sweet, slightly flighty, but very kind Aunt Musya. Oh, it doesn’t matter, let everyone think that this fairy tale is a fiction, princess Miguel herself is a fiction, but she, my wondrous princess, is firmly entrenched in my impressionable heart... Whether she ever existed or not, what do I really care about? there was a time when I loved her, my beautiful cruel Miguel! I saw her in a dream more than once, I saw her golden hair the color of a ripe ear, her green, like a forest pool, deep eyes.
That year I turned six years old. I was already dismantling warehouses and, with the help of Aunt Musya, instead of sticks, I wrote clumsy, lopsided letters. And I already understood beauty. The fabulous beauty of nature: sun, forest, flowers. And my eyes lit up with delight when I saw a beautiful picture or an elegant illustration on a magazine page.
Aunt Musya, dad and grandmother tried from my very early age to develop aesthetic taste in me, drawing my attention to what for other children passed without a trace.
Look, Lyusenka, what a beautiful sunset! You see how wonderfully the crimson sun sinks in the pond! Look, look, now the water has turned completely scarlet. And the surrounding trees seem to be on fire.
I look and seethe with delight. Indeed, scarlet water, scarlet trees and scarlet sun. What a beauty!
Yu. Yakovlev Girls from Vasilyevsky Island
I'm Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island.
There is a hamster living under my bed. He will stuff his cheeks full, in reserve, sit on his hind legs and look with black buttons... Yesterday I beat one boy. I gave him a good bream. We, Vasileostrovsk girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary...
It’s always windy here on Vasilyevsky. The rain is falling. Wet snow is falling. Floods happen. And our island floats like a ship: on the left is the Neva, on the right is the Nevka, in front is the open sea.
I have a friend - Tanya Savicheva. We are neighbors. She is from the Second Line, building 13. Four windows on the first floor. There is a bakery nearby, and a kerosene shop in the basement... Now there is no shop, but in Tanino, when I was not yet alive, there was always a smell of kerosene on the ground floor. They told me.
Tanya Savicheva was the same age as I am now. She could have grown up long ago and become a teacher, but she would forever remain a girl... When my grandmother sent Tanya to get kerosene, I was not there. And she went to the Rumyantsevsky Garden with another friend. But I know everything about her. They told me.
She was a songbird. She always sang. She wanted to recite poetry, but she stumbled over her words: she would stumble, and everyone would think that she had forgotten the right word. My friend sang because when you sing, you don't stutter. She couldn’t stutter, she was going to become a teacher, like Linda Augustovna.
She always played teacher. He will put a large grandmother's scarf on his shoulders, clasp his hands and walk from corner to corner. “Children, today we will do repetition with you...” And then he stumbles on a word, blushes and turns to the wall, although there is no one in the room.
They say there are doctors who treat stuttering. I would find one like that. We, Vasileostrovsk girls, will find anyone you want! But now the doctor is no longer needed. She stayed there... my friend Tanya Savicheva. She was taken from besieged Leningrad to the mainland, and the road, called the Road of Life, could not give Tanya life.
The girl died of hunger... Does it matter whether you die from hunger or from a bullet? Maybe hunger hurts even more...
I decided to find the Road of Life. I went to Rzhevka, where this road begins. I walked two and a half kilometers - there the guys were building a monument to the children who died during the siege. I also wanted to build.
Some adults asked me:
- Who are you?
— I’m Valya Zaitseva from Vasilyevsky Island. I also want to build.
I was told:
- It is forbidden! Come with your area.
I didn't leave. I looked around and saw a baby, a tadpole. I grabbed it:
— Did he also come with his region?
- He came with his brother.
You can do it with your brother. With the region it is possible. But what about being alone?
I told them:
- You see, I don’t just want to build. I want to build for my friend... Tanya Savicheva.
They rolled their eyes. They didn't believe it. They asked again:
— Is Tanya Savicheva your friend?
-What's special here? We are the same age. Both are from Vasilyevsky Island.
- But she’s not there...
How stupid people are, and adults too! What does “no” mean if we are friends? I told them to understand:
- We have everything in common. Both the street and the school. We have a hamster. He'll stuff his cheeks...
I noticed that they didn't believe me. And so that they would believe, she blurted out:
“We even have the same handwriting!”
- Handwriting? - They were even more surprised.
- And what? Handwriting!
Suddenly they became cheerful because of the handwriting:
- This is very good! This is a real find. Come with us.
- I'm not going anywhere. I want to build...
- You will build! You will write for the monument in Tanya’s handwriting.
“I can,” I agreed. - Only I don’t have a pencil. Will you give it?
- You will write on concrete. You don't write on concrete with a pencil.
I've never written on concrete. I wrote on the walls, on the asphalt, but they brought me to the concrete plant and gave Tanya a diary - a notebook with the alphabet: a, b, c... I have the same book. For forty kopecks.
I picked up Tanya’s diary and opened the page. It was written there:
I felt cold. I wanted to give them the book and leave.
But I am Vasileostrovskaya. And if a friend’s older sister died, I should stay with her and not run away.
- Give me your concrete. I will write.
The crane lowered a huge frame of thick gray dough to my feet. I took a stick, squatted down and began to write. The concrete was cold. It was difficult to write. And they told me:
- Do not rush.
I made mistakes, smoothed the concrete with my palm and wrote again.
I didn't do well.
- Do not rush. Write calmly.
While I was writing about Zhenya, my grandmother died.
If you just want to eat, it’s not hunger - eat an hour later.
I tried fasting from morning to evening. I endured it. Hunger - when day after day your head, hands, heart - everything you have goes hungry. First he starves, then he dies.
Leka had his own corner, fenced off with cabinets, where he drew.
He earned money by drawing and studied. He was quiet and short-sighted, wore glasses, and kept creaking his pen. They told me.
Where did he die? Probably in the kitchen, where the potbelly stove smoked like a small weak locomotive, where they slept and ate bread once a day. A small piece is like a cure for death. Leka didn't have enough medicine...
“Write,” they told me quietly.
In the new frame, the concrete was liquid, it crawled onto the letters. And the word “died” disappeared. I didn't want to write it again. But they told me:
- Write, Valya Zaitseva, write.
And I wrote again - “died.”
I am very tired of writing the word “died”. I knew that with each page of Tanya Savicheva’s diary it was getting worse. She stopped singing a long time ago and did not notice that she stuttered. She no longer played teacher. But she didn’t give up - she lived. They told me... Spring has come. The trees have turned green. We have a lot of trees on Vasilyevsky. Tanya dried out, froze, became thin and light. Her hands were shaking and her eyes hurt from the sun. The Nazis killed half of Tanya Savicheva, and maybe more than half. But her mother was with her, and Tanya held on.
- Why don’t you write? - they told me quietly. - Write, Valya Zaitseva, otherwise the concrete will harden.
For a long time I did not dare to open a page with the letter “M”. On this page Tanya’s hand wrote: “Mom May 13 at 7.30 o’clock.
morning 1942." Tanya did not write the word “died”. She didn't have the strength to write the word.
I gripped the wand tightly and touched the concrete. I didn’t look in my diary, but wrote it by heart. It's good that we have the same handwriting.
I wrote with all my might. The concrete became thick, almost frozen. He no longer crawled onto the letters.
-Can you still write?
“I’ll finish writing,” I answered and turned away so that my eyes could not see. After all, Tanya Savicheva is my... friend.
Tanya and I are the same age, we, Vasileostrovsky girls, know how to stand up for ourselves when necessary. If she had not been from Vasileostrovsk, from Leningrad, she would not have lasted so long. But she lived, which means she didn’t give up!
I opened page “C”. There were two words: “The Savichevs died.”
I opened the page “U” - “Everyone Died.” The last page of Tanya Savicheva’s diary began with the letter “O” - “There is only Tanya left.”
And I imagined that it was me, Valya Zaitseva, who was left alone: without mom, without dad, without my sister Lyulka. Hungry. Under fire.
In an empty apartment on the Second Line. I wanted to cross out this last page, but the concrete hardened and the stick broke.
And suddenly I asked Tanya Savicheva to myself: “Why alone?
And I? You have a friend - Valya Zaitseva, your neighbor from Vasilyevsky Island. You and I will go to the Rumyantsevsky Garden, run around, and when you get tired, I’ll bring my grandmother’s scarf from home and we’ll play teacher Linda Augustovna. There is a hamster living under my bed. I'll give it to you for your birthday. Do you hear, Tanya Savicheva?”
Someone put his hand on my shoulder and said:
- Let's go, Valya Zaitseva. You did everything you needed to do. Thank you.
I didn’t understand why they were saying “thank you” to me. I said:
- I’ll come tomorrow... without my area. Can?
“Come without a district,” they told me. - Come.
My friend Tanya Savicheva did not shoot at the Nazis and was not a scout for the partisans. She simply lived in her hometown during the most difficult time. But perhaps the reason the Nazis did not enter Leningrad was because Tanya Savicheva lived there and there were many other girls and boys who remained forever in their time. And today’s guys are friends with them, just as I am friends with Tanya.
But they are only friends with the living.
Vladimir Zheleznyakov “Scarecrow”
A circle of their faces flashed in front of me, and I rushed around in it, like a squirrel in a wheel.
I should stop and leave.
The boys attacked me.
“For her legs! - Valka yelled. - For your legs!..”
They knocked me down and grabbed me by the legs and arms. I kicked and kicked as hard as I could, but they grabbed me and dragged me into the garden.
Iron Button and Shmakova dragged out a scarecrow mounted on a long stick. Dimka came out after them and stood to the side. The stuffed animal was in my dress, with my eyes, with my mouth from ear to ear. The legs were made of stockings stuffed with straw; instead of hair, there was tow and some feathers sticking out. On my neck, that is, the scarecrow, dangled a plaque with the words: “SCACHERY IS A TRAITOR.”
Lenka fell silent and somehow completely faded away.
Nikolai Nikolaevich realized that the limit of her story and the limit of her strength had come.
“And they were having fun around the stuffed animal,” said Lenka. - They jumped and laughed:
“Wow, our beauty-ah!”
“I waited!”
“I came up with an idea! I came up with an idea! - Shmakova jumped for joy. “Let Dimka light the fire!”
After these words from Shmakova, I completely stopped being afraid. I thought: if Dimka sets it on fire, then maybe I’ll just die.
And at this time Valka - he was the first to succeed everywhere - stuck the scarecrow into the ground and sprinkled brushwood around it.
“I don’t have matches,” Dimka said quietly.
“But I have it!” - Shaggy put matches in Dimka’s hand and pushed him towards the scarecrow.
Dimka stood near the scarecrow, his head bowed low.
I froze - I waited in last time! Well, I thought he would look back and say: “Guys, Lenka is not to blame for anything... It’s all me!”
“Set it on fire!” - ordered the Iron Button.
I couldn’t stand it and screamed:
“Dimka! No need, Dimka-ah-ah!..”
And he was still standing near the scarecrow - I could see his back, he was hunched over and seemed somehow small. Maybe because the scarecrow was on a long stick. Only he was small and weak.
“Well, Somov! - said the Iron Button. “Finally, go to the end!”
Dimka fell to his knees and lowered his head so low that only his shoulders stuck out, and his head was not visible at all. It turned out to be some kind of headless arsonist. He struck a match and a flame of fire grew over his shoulders. Then he jumped up and hurriedly ran to the side.
They dragged me close to the fire. Without looking away, I looked at the flames of the fire. Grandfather! I felt then how this fire engulfed me, how it burned, baked and bited, although only waves of its heat reached me.
I screamed, I screamed so much that they let me out of surprise.
When they released me, I rushed to the fire and began to kick it around with my feet, grabbing the burning branches with my hands - I didn’t want the scarecrow to burn. For some reason I really didn’t want this!
Dimka was the first to come to his senses.
“Are you crazy? “He grabbed my hand and tried to pull me away from the fire. - This is a joke! Don’t you understand jokes?”
I became strong and easily defeated him. She pushed him so hard that he flew upside down - only his heels sparkled towards the sky. And she pulled the scarecrow out of the fire and began waving it over her head, stepping on everyone. The scarecrow had already caught fire, sparks were flying from it in different directions, and they all shied away in fear from these sparks.
They ran away.
And I got so dizzy, driving them away, that I couldn’t stop until I fell. There was a stuffed animal lying next to me. It was scorched, fluttering in the wind and that made it look like it was alive.
At first I lay with my eyes closed. Then she felt that she smelled something burning and opened her eyes - the scarecrow’s dress was smoking. I slammed my hand down on the smoldering hem and leaned back onto the grass.
There was a crunch of branches, retreating footsteps, and then there was silence.
"Anne of Green Gables" by Lucy Maud Montgomery
It was already quite light when Anya woke up and sat up in bed, looking confusedly out the window through which a stream of joyful sunlight was pouring and behind which something white and fluffy was swaying against the background of the bright blue sky.
At first, she couldn't remember where she was. At first she felt a delightful thrill, as if something very pleasant had happened, then a terrible memory appeared. It was Green Gables, but they didn’t want to leave her here because she was not a boy!
But it was morning, and outside the window stood a cherry tree, all in bloom. Anya jumped out of bed and in one leap found herself at the window. Then she pushed the window frame - the frame gave way with a creak, as if it had not been opened for a long time, which, however, was in fact - and sank to her knees, peering into the June morning. Her eyes sparkled with delight. Ah, isn't this wonderful? Isn't this a lovely place? If only she could stay here! She will imagine herself staying. There is room for imagination here.
A huge cherry tree grew so close to the window that its branches touched the house. It was so densely strewn with flowers that not a single leaf was visible. On both sides of the house there were large gardens, on one side an apple tree, on the other a cherry tree, all in bloom. The grass under the trees seemed yellow from the blooming dandelions. A little further away in the garden one could see lilac bushes, all in clusters of bright purple flowers, and the morning breeze carried their dizzyingly sweet aroma to Anya’s window.
Further beyond the garden, green meadows covered with lush clover descended to a valley where a stream ran and many white birch trees grew, the slender trunks of which rose above the undergrowth, suggesting a wonderful holiday among ferns, mosses and forest grasses. Beyond the valley a hill could be seen, green and fluffy with spruce and fir trees. Among them there was a small gap, and through it one could see the gray mezzanine of the house that Anya had seen the day before from the other side of the Lake of Sparkling Waters.
To the left were large barns and other outbuildings, and beyond them green fields sloped down to the sparkling blue sea.
Anya’s eyes, receptive to beauty, slowly moved from one picture to another, greedily absorbing everything that was in front of her. The poor thing has seen so many ugly places in her life. But what was revealed to her now exceeded her wildest dreams.
She knelt, forgetting about everything in the world except the beauty that surrounded her, until she shuddered, feeling someone's hand on her shoulder. The little dreamer did not hear Marilla enter.
“It’s time to get dressed,” said Marilla shortly.
Marilla simply did not know how to talk to this child, and this unfamiliarity, which was unpleasant to her, made her harsh and decisive against her will.
Anya stood up with a deep sigh.
- Ah. isn't it wonderful? - she asked, pointing her hand at the beautiful world outside the window.
“Yes, it’s a big tree,” said Marilla, “and it blooms profusely, but the cherries themselves are no good—small and wormy.”
- Oh, I'm not just talking about the tree; of course, it is beautiful... yes, it is dazzlingly beautiful... it blooms as if it were extremely important for itself... But I meant everything: the garden, and the trees, and the stream, and the forests - the whole big beautiful world. Don't you feel like you love the whole world on a morning like this? Even here I can hear the stream laughing in the distance. Have you ever noticed what joyful creatures these streams are? They always laugh. Even in winter I can hear their laughter from under the ice. I'm so glad there's a stream here near Green Gables. Maybe you think it doesn't matter to me since you don't want to leave me here? But that's not true. I will always be pleased to remember that there is a stream near Green Gables, even if I never see it again. If there had not been a stream here, I would always have been haunted by the unpleasant feeling that it should have been here. This morning I am not in the depths of grief. I am never in the depths of grief in the morning. Isn't it wonderful that there is morning? But I'm very sad. I just imagined that you still need me and that I will stay here forever, forever. It was a great comfort to imagine this. But the most unpleasant thing about imagining things is that there comes a point when you have to stop imagining, and this is very painful.
“Better get dressed, go downstairs, and don’t think about your imaginary things,” said Marilla, as soon as she managed to get a word in edgewise. - Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the window open and turn the bed around to air it out. And hurry up, please.
Anya obviously could act quickly when required, because within ten minutes she came downstairs, neatly dressed, with her hair combed and braided, her face washed; At the same time, her soul was filled with the pleasant consciousness that she had fulfilled all of Marilla’s demands. However, in fairness, it should be noted that she still forgot to open the bed for airing.
“I’m very hungry today,” she announced, slipping into the chair Marilla had indicated to her. “The world no longer seems as dark a desert as it did last night.” I'm so glad it's a sunny morning. However, I love rainy mornings too. Every morning is interesting, right? There is no telling what awaits us on this day, and there is so much left to the imagination. But I’m glad that it’s not raining today, because it’s easier not to be discouraged and to endure the vicissitudes of fate on a sunny day. I feel like I have a lot to endure today. It's very easy to read about other people's misfortunes and imagine that we too could heroically overcome them, but it's not so easy when we actually have to face them, right?
“For God's sake, hold your tongue,” said Marilla. “A little girl shouldn’t talk so much.”
After this remark, Anya fell completely silent, so obediently that her continued silence began to irritate Marilla somewhat, as if it were something not entirely natural. Matthew was also silent - but at least that was natural - so breakfast passed in complete silence.
As he neared the end, Anya became more and more distracted. She ate mechanically, and her large eyes constantly, unseeingly looked at the sky outside the window. This irritated Marilla even more. She had an unpleasant feeling that while the body of this strange child was at the table, his spirit was soaring on the wings of fantasy in some transcendental land. Who would want to have such a child in the house?
And yet, what was most incomprehensible, Matthew wanted to leave her! Marilla felt that he wanted it this morning as much as he did last night, and that he intended to continue to want it. It was his usual way to get some whim into his head and cling to it with amazing silent tenacity - ten times more powerful and effective thanks to silence than if he talked about his desire from morning to evening.
When breakfast was over, Anya came out of her reverie and offered to wash the dishes.
— Do you know how to wash dishes properly? asked Marilla incredulously.
- Pretty good. True, I am better at babysitting children. I have a lot of experience in this matter. It's a pity that you don't have children here for me to take care of.
“But I wouldn’t want there to be any more children here than there are at the moment.” You alone are enough trouble. I can't imagine what to do with you. Matthew is so funny.
“He seemed very nice to me,” said Anya reproachfully. “He’s very friendly and didn’t mind at all, no matter how much I said it—he seemed to like it.” I felt a kindred spirit in him as soon as I saw him.
“You're both eccentrics, if that's what you mean when you talk about kindred spirits,” Marilla snorted. - Okay, you can wash the dishes. Use hot water and dry thoroughly. I already have a lot of work to do this morning because I have to go to White Sands this afternoon to see Mrs. Spencer. You will come with me, and there we will decide what to do with you. When you're done with the dishes, go upstairs and make the bed.
Anya washed the dishes quite quickly and thoroughly, which did not go unnoticed by Marilla. Then she made the bed, though with less success, because she had never learned the art of fighting feather beds. But still the bed was made, and Marilla, in order to get rid of the girl for a while, said that she would allow her to go into the garden and play there until dinner.
Anya rushed to the door, with a lively face and shining eyes. But right at the threshold she suddenly stopped, turned sharply back and sat down near the table, the expression of delight disappearing from her face, as if the wind had blown it away.
- Well, what else happened? asked Marilla.
“I don’t dare go out,” said Anya in the tone of a martyr renouncing all earthly joys. “If I can’t stay here, I shouldn’t fall in love with Green Gables.” And if I go out and get acquainted with all these trees, flowers, and garden, and stream, I cannot help but fall in love with them. My soul is already heavy, and I don’t want it to become even heavier. I really want to go out - everything seems to be calling me: “Anya, Anya, come out to us! Anya, Anya, we want to play with you!” - but it's better not to do this. You shouldn't fall in love with something you'll be torn away from forever, right? And it’s so hard to resist and not fall in love, isn’t it? That's why I was so happy when I thought I'd stay here. I thought there was so much to love here and nothing would get in my way. But this brief dream passed. Now I have come to terms with my fate, so it’s better for me not to go out. Otherwise, I'm afraid I won't be able to reconcile with him again. What is the name of this flower in a pot on the windowsill, please tell me?
- This is a geranium.
- Oh, I don't mean that name. I mean the name you gave her. You didn't give her a name? Then can I do it? Can I call her... oh, let me think... Darling will do... can I call her Darling while I'm here? Oh, let me call her that!
- For God's sake, I don't care. But what's the point in naming geraniums?
- Oh, I like things to have names, even if it's just geraniums. This makes them more like people. How do you know you're not hurting geranium's feelings when you just call it "geranium" and nothing more? After all, you wouldn’t like it if you were always called just a woman. Yes, I will call her Darling. I gave a name to this cherry tree under my bedroom window this morning. I called her Snow Queen because she's so white. Of course, it won’t always be in bloom, but you can always imagine it, right?
“I’ve never seen or heard anything like this in my life,” Marilla muttered, fleeing to the basement for potatoes. “She's really interesting, as Matthew says.” I can already feel myself wondering what else she will say. She casts a spell on me too. And she’s already unleashed them on Matthew. That look he gave me as he left again expressed everything he had said and hinted at yesterday. It would be better if he were like other men and talked about everything openly. Then it would be possible to answer and convince him. But what can you do with a man who only watches?
When Marilla returned from her pilgrimage to the basement, she found Anne again falling into a reverie. The girl sat with her chin resting on her hands and her gaze fixed on the sky. So Marilla left her until dinner appeared on the table.
“Can I take the mare and the gig after lunch, Matthew?” asked Marilla.
Matthew nodded and looked sadly at Anya. Marilla caught this glance and said dryly:
“I’m going to go to White Sands and resolve this issue.” I'll take Anya with me so Mrs. Spencer can send her back to Nova Scotia right away. I'll leave some tea for you on the stove and come home in time for milking.
Again Matthew said nothing. Marilla felt that she was wasting her words. Nothing is more annoying than a man who doesn't respond...except a woman who doesn't respond.
In due course, Matthew harnessed the bay horse, and Marilla and Anya got into the convertible. Matthew opened the courtyard gate for them and, as they slowly drove past, he said loudly, apparently not addressing anyone:
“There was this guy here this morning, Jerry Buot from Creek, and I told him I'd hire him for the summer.
Marilla did not answer, but whipped the unfortunate bay with such force that the fat mare, unaccustomed to such treatment, broke into a gallop indignantly. When the convertible was already rolling along the high road, Marilla turned around and saw that the obnoxious Matthew was leaning against the gate, sadly looking after them.
Sergey Kutsko
WOLVES
The way village life is structured is that if you don’t go out into the forest before noon and take a walk through familiar mushroom and berry places, then by evening there’s nothing to run for, everything will be hidden.
One girl thought so too. The sun has just risen to the tops of the fir trees, and already there is a full basket in my hands, I have wandered far, but what mushrooms! She looked around with gratitude and was just about to leave when the distant bushes suddenly trembled and an animal came out into the clearing, its eyes tenaciously following the girl’s figure.
- Oh, dog! - she said.
Cows were grazing somewhere nearby, and meeting a shepherd dog in the forest was not a big surprise to them. But the meeting with several more pairs of animal eyes put me in a daze...
“Wolves,” a thought flashed, “the road is not far, run...” Yes, the strength disappeared, the basket involuntarily fell out of his hands, his legs became weak and disobedient.
- Mother! - this sudden cry stopped the flock, which had already reached the middle of the clearing. - People, help! - flashed three times over the forest.
As the shepherds later said: “We heard screams, we thought the children were playing around...” This is five kilometers from the village, in the forest!
The wolves slowly approached, the she-wolf walked ahead. This happens with these animals - the she-wolf becomes the head of the pack. Only her eyes were not as fierce as they were studying. They seemed to ask: “Well, man? What will you do now, when there are no weapons in your hands, and your relatives are not nearby?
The girl fell to her knees, covered her eyes with her hands and began to cry. Suddenly the thought of prayer came to her, as if something stirred in her soul, as if the words of her grandmother, remembered from childhood, were resurrected: “Ask the Mother of God! ”
The girl did not remember the words of the prayer. Making the sign of the cross, she asked the Mother of God, as if she were her mother, in the last hope of intercession and salvation.
When she opened her eyes, the wolves, passing the bushes, went into the forest. A she-wolf walked slowly ahead, head down.
Boris Ganago
LETTER TO GOD
This happened at the end of the 19th century.
Petersburg. Christmas Eve. A cold, piercing wind blows from the bay. Fine prickly snow is falling. Horses' hooves clatter on the cobblestone streets, shop doors slam - last-minute shopping is being done before the holiday. Everyone is in a hurry to get home as quickly as possible.
Only a little boy slowly wanders along a snowy street. Every now and then he takes his cold, red hands out of the pockets of his old coat and tries to warm them with his breath. Then he stuffs them deeper into his pockets again and moves on. Here he stops at the bakery window and looks at the pretzels and bagels displayed behind the glass.
The store door swung open, letting out another customer, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted out. The boy swallowed his saliva convulsively, stomped on the spot and wandered on.
Dusk is falling imperceptibly. There are fewer and fewer passers-by. The boy pauses near a building with lights burning in the windows, and, rising on tiptoe, tries to look inside. After a moment's hesitation, he opens the door.
The old clerk was late at work today. He's in no hurry. He has been living alone for a long time and on holidays he feels his loneliness especially acutely. The clerk sat and thought with bitterness that he had no one to celebrate Christmas with, no one to give gifts to. At this time the door opened. The old man looked up and saw the boy.
- Uncle, uncle, I need to write a letter! - the boy said quickly.
- Do you have money? - the clerk asked sternly.
The boy, fiddling with his hat in his hands, took a step back. And then the lonely clerk remembered that today was Christmas Eve and that he really wanted to give someone a gift. He took out a blank sheet of paper, dipped his pen in ink and wrote: “Petersburg. 6th January. Mr...”
- What is the gentleman's last name?
“This is not sir,” muttered the boy, not yet fully believing his luck.
- Oh, is this a lady? — the clerk asked, smiling.
No no! - the boy said quickly.
So who do you want to write a letter to? - the old man was surprised,
- To Jesus.
“How dare you make fun of an elderly man?” — the clerk was indignant and wanted to show the boy to the door. But then I saw tears in the child’s eyes and remembered that today was Christmas Eve. He felt ashamed of his anger, and in a warmer voice he asked:
-What do you want to write to Jesus?
— My mother always taught me to ask God for help when it’s difficult. She said God's name is Jesus Christ. “The boy came closer to the clerk and continued: “And yesterday she fell asleep, and I can’t wake her up.” There’s not even bread at home, I’m so hungry,” he wiped the tears that had come to his eyes with his palm.
- How did you wake her up? - asked the old man, rising from his table.
- I kissed her.
- Is she breathing?
- What are you saying, uncle, do people breathe in their sleep?
“Jesus Christ has already received your letter,” said the old man, hugging the boy by the shoulders. “He told me to take care of you, and took your mother to Himself.”
The old clerk thought: “My mother, when you left for another world, you told me to be a good person and a pious Christian. I forgot your order, but now you won’t be ashamed of me.”
Boris Ganago
THE SPOKEN WORD
On the outskirts big city there was an old house with a garden. They were guarded by a reliable guard - the smart dog Uranus. He never barked at anyone in vain, kept a vigilant eye on strangers, and rejoiced at his owners.
But this house was demolished. Its inhabitants were offered a comfortable apartment, and then the question arose - what to do with the shepherd? As a watchman, Uranus was no longer needed by them, becoming only a burden. There were fierce debates about the dog's fate for several days. IN open window From the house to the guard kennel one could often hear the plaintive sobs of the grandson and the menacing shouts of the grandfather.
What did Uranus understand from the words he heard? Who knows...
Only his daughter-in-law and grandson, who were bringing him food, noticed that the dog’s bowl remained untouched for more than a day. Uranus did not eat in the following days, no matter how much he was persuaded. He no longer wagged his tail when people approached him, and even looked away, as if no longer wanting to look at the people who had betrayed him.
The daughter-in-law, expecting an heir or heiress, suggested:
— Isn’t Uranus sick? The owner said in anger:
“It would be better if the dog died on its own.” There would be no need to shoot then.
The daughter-in-law shuddered.
Uranus looked at the speaker with a look that the owner could not forget for a long time.
The grandson persuaded the neighbor's veterinarian to look at his pet. But the veterinarian did not find any disease, he only said thoughtfully:
- Maybe he was sad about something... Uranus soon died, until his death he barely moved his tail only to his daughter-in-law and grandson, who visited him.
And at night the owner often remembered the look of Uranus, who had faithfully served him for so many years. The old man already regretted the cruel words that killed the dog.
But is it possible to return what was said?
And who knows how the voiced evil hurt the grandson, attached to his four-legged friend?
And who knows how it, scattering around the world like a radio wave, will affect the souls of unborn children, future generations?
Words live, words never die...
An old book told the story: one girl’s father died. The girl missed him. He was always kind to her. She missed this warmth.
One day her dad dreamed of her and said: now be kind to people. Each kind word serves Eternity.
Boris Ganago
MASHENKA
Yule story
Once, many years ago, a girl Masha was mistaken for an Angel. It happened like this.
One poor family had three children. Their dad died, their mom worked where she could, and then got sick. There wasn’t a crumb left in the house, but I was so hungry. What to do?
Mom went out into the street and began to beg, but people passed by without noticing her. Christmas night was approaching, and the woman’s words: “I’m not asking for myself, but for my children... For Christ’s sake! “were drowning in the pre-holiday bustle.
In desperation, she entered the church and began to ask Christ Himself for help. Who else was left to ask?
It was here, at the icon of the Savior, that Masha saw a woman kneeling. Her face was flooded with tears. The girl had never seen such suffering before.
Masha had an amazing heart. When people were happy nearby, and she wanted to jump with happiness. But if someone was in pain, she could not pass by and asked:
What happened to you? Why are you crying? And someone else's pain penetrated her heart. And now she leaned towards the woman:
Are you in grief?
And when she shared her misfortune with her, Masha, who had never felt hungry in her life, imagined three lonely children who had not seen food for a long time. Without thinking, she handed the woman five rubles. It was all her money.
At that time, this was a significant amount, and the woman’s face lit up.
Where is your home? - Masha asked goodbye. She was surprised to learn that a poor family lived in the next basement. The girl did not understand how she could live in a basement, but she knew exactly what she needed to do on this Christmas evening.
The happy mother flew home as if on wings. She bought food at a nearby store, and the children greeted her joyfully.
Soon the stove was blazing and the samovar was boiling. The children warmed up, satiated and became quiet. The table laden with food was an unexpected holiday for them, almost a miracle.
But then Nadya, the smallest one, asked:
Mom, is it true that at Christmas time God sends an Angel to children, and he brings them many, many gifts?
Mom knew very well that they had no one to expect gifts from. Glory to God for what He has already given them: everyone is fed and warm. But kids are kids. They so wanted to have a Christmas tree, the same as all the other children. What could she, poor thing, tell them? Destroy a child's faith?
The children looked at her warily, waiting for an answer. And my mother confirmed:
This is true. But the Angel comes only to those who believe in God with all their hearts and pray to Him with all their hearts.
“But I believe in God with all my heart and pray to Him with all my heart,” Nadya did not back down. - Let him send us His Angel.
Mom didn't know what to say. There was silence in the room, only the logs crackled in the stove. And suddenly there was a knock. The children shuddered, and the mother crossed herself and opened the door with a trembling hand.
On the threshold stood a little fair-haired girl Masha, and behind her was a bearded man with a Christmas tree in his hands.
Merry Christmas! - Mashenka joyfully congratulated the owners. The children froze.
While the bearded man was setting up the Christmas tree, Nanny Machine entered the room with a large basket, from which gifts immediately began to appear. The kids couldn't believe their eyes. But neither they nor the mother suspected that the girl had given them her Christmas tree and her gifts.
And when the unexpected guests left, Nadya asked:
Was this girl an Angel?
Boris Ganago
BACK TO LIFE
Based on the story “Seryozha” by A. Dobrovolsky
Usually the brothers' beds were next to each other. But when Seryozha fell ill with pneumonia, Sasha was moved to another room and was forbidden to disturb the baby. They just asked me to pray for my brother, who was getting worse and worse.
One evening Sasha looked into the patient’s room. Seryozha lay with his eyes open, seeing nothing, and barely breathing. Frightened, the boy rushed to the office, from which the voices of his parents could be heard. The door was ajar, and Sasha heard mom, crying, say that Seryozha was dying. Dad answered with pain in his voice:
- Why cry now? There's no way to save him...
In horror, Sasha rushed to his sister’s room. There was no one there, and he fell to his knees in front of the icon, sobbing. Mother of God hanging on the wall. Through the sobs the words broke through:
- Lord, Lord, make sure that Seryozha doesn’t die!
Sasha's face was flooded with tears. Everything around blurred as if in a fog. The boy saw in front of him only the face of the Mother of God. The sense of time disappeared.
- Lord, you can do anything, save Seryozha!
It was already completely dark. Exhausted, Sasha stood up with the corpse and lit the table lamp. The Gospel lay before her. The boy turned over a few pages, and suddenly his gaze fell on the line: “Go, and as you believed, so be it for you...”
As if he had heard an order, he went to Seryozha. My mother sat silently at the bedside of her beloved brother. She gave a sign: “Don’t make noise, Seryozha fell asleep.”
Words were not spoken, but this sign was like a ray of hope. He fell asleep - that means he’s alive, that means he will live!
Three days later, Seryozha could already sit in bed, and the children were allowed to visit him. They brought their brother’s favorite toys, a fortress and houses that he had cut out and glued before his illness - everything that could please the baby. The little sister with the big doll stood next to Seryozha, and Sasha, jubilantly, took a photograph of them.
These were moments of real happiness.
Boris Ganago
YOUR CHICKEN
A chick fell out of the nest - very small, helpless, even its wings had not yet grown. He can’t do anything, he just squeaks and opens his beak - asking for food.
The guys took him and brought him into the house. They built him a nest from grass and twigs. Vova fed the baby, and Ira gave him water and took him out into the sun.
Soon the chick grew stronger, and feathers began to grow instead of fluff. The guys found an old birdcage in the attic and, to be safe, they put their pet in it - the cat began to look at him very expressively. All day long he was on duty at the door, waiting for the right moment. And no matter how much his children chased him, he did not take his eyes off the chick.
Summer flew by unnoticed. The chick grew up in front of the children and began to fly around the cage. And soon he felt cramped in it. When the cage was taken outside, he hit the bars and asked to be released. So the guys decided to release their pet. Of course, they were sorry to part with him, but they could not deprive the freedom of someone who was created for flight.
One sunny morning the children said goodbye to their pet, took the cage out into the yard and opened it. The chick jumped onto the grass and looked back at his friends.
At that moment the cat appeared. Hiding in the bushes, he prepared to jump, rushed, but... The chick flew high, high...
The holy elder John of Kronstadt compared our soul to a bird. The enemy is hunting for every soul and wants to catch it. After all, at first the human soul, just like a fledgling chick, is helpless and does not know how to fly. How can we preserve it, how can we grow it so that it does not break on sharp stones or fall into the net of a fisherman?
The Lord created a saving fence behind which our soul grows and strengthens - the house of God, the Holy Church. In it the soul learns to fly high, high, to the very sky. And she will know such a bright joy there that no earthly nets are afraid of her.
Boris Ganago
MIRROR
Dot, dot, comma,
Minus, the face is crooked.
Stick, stick, cucumber -
So the little man came out.
With this poem Nadya finished the drawing. Then, fearing that she would not be understood, she signed under it: “It’s me.” She carefully examined her creation and decided that it was missing something.
The young artist went to the mirror and began to look at herself: what else needs to be completed so that anyone can understand who is depicted in the portrait?
Nadya loved to dress up and twirl in front of a large mirror, and tried different hairstyles. This time the girl tried on her mother’s hat with a veil.
She wanted to look mysterious and romantic, like the long-legged girls showing fashion on TV. Nadya imagined herself as an adult, cast a languid glance in the mirror and tried to walk with the gait of a fashion model. It didn't turn out very nicely, and when she stopped abruptly, the hat slid down onto her nose.
It’s good that no one saw her at that moment. If only we could laugh! In general, she didn’t like being a fashion model at all.
The girl took off her hat, and then her gaze fell on her grandmother’s hat. Unable to resist, she tried it on. And she froze, making an amazing discovery: she looked exactly like her grandmother. She just didn't have any wrinkles yet. Bye.
Now Nadya knew what she would become in many years. True, this future seemed very distant to her...
It became clear to Nadya why her grandmother loves her so much, why she watches her pranks with tender sadness and secretly sighs.
There were footsteps. Nadya hastily put her hat back in place and ran to the door. On the threshold she met... herself, only not so frisky. But the eyes were exactly the same: childishly surprised and joyful.
Nadya hugged her future self and quietly asked:
Grandma, is it true that you were me as a child?
Grandmother paused, then smiled mysteriously and took out an old album from the shelf. After flipping through a few pages, she showed a photograph of a little girl who looked very much like Nadya.
That's what I was like.
Oh, really, you look like me! - the granddaughter exclaimed in delight.
Or maybe you are like me? - Grandmother asked, squinting slyly.
It doesn't matter who looks like whom. The main thing is that they are similar,” the little girl insisted.
Isn't it important? And look who I looked like...
And the grandmother began to leaf through the album. There were all sorts of faces there. And what faces! And each was beautiful in its own way. The peace, dignity and warmth they radiated were eye-catching. Nadya noticed that all of them - small children and gray-haired old men, young ladies and fit military men - were somewhat similar to each other... And to her.
Tell me about them,” the girl asked.
The grandmother hugged her little blood to herself, and a story flowed about their family, going back from ancient centuries.
The time for cartoons had already come, but the girl didn’t want to watch them. She was discovering something amazing, something that had been there for a long time, but living inside her.
Do you know the history of your grandfathers, great-grandfathers, the history of your family? Maybe this story is your mirror?
Boris Ganago
PARROT
Petya was wandering around the house. I'm tired of all the games. Then my mother gave instructions to go to the store and also suggested:
Our neighbor, Maria Nikolaevna, broke her leg. There is no one to buy her bread. He can barely move around the room. Come on, I'll call and find out if she needs to buy anything.
Aunt Masha was happy about the call. And when the boy brought her a whole bag of groceries, she didn’t know how to thank him. For some reason, she showed Petya the empty cage in which the parrot had recently lived. It was her friend. Aunt Masha looked after him, shared her thoughts, and he took off and flew away. Now she has no one to say a word to, no one to care about. What kind of life is this if there is no one to take care of?
Petya looked at the empty cage, at the crutches, imagined Aunt Mania hobbling around the empty apartment, and an unexpected thought came to his mind. The fact is that he had long been saving the money that he was given for toys. I still couldn't find anything suitable. And now this strange thought is to buy a parrot for Aunt Masha.
Having said goodbye, Petya ran out into the street. He wanted to go to a pet store, where he had once seen various parrots. But now he looked at them through the eyes of Aunt Masha. Which one of them could she become friends with? Maybe this one will suit her, maybe this one?
Petya decided to ask his neighbor about the fugitive. The next day he told his mother:
Call Aunt Masha... Maybe she needs something?
Mom even froze, then hugged her son to her and whispered:
So you become a man... Petya was offended:
Wasn’t I a human before?
There was, of course there was,” my mother smiled. - Only now your soul has also awakened... Thank God!
What is the soul? — the boy became wary.
This is the ability to love.
The mother looked searchingly at her son:
Maybe you can call yourself?
Petya was embarrassed. Mom answered the phone: Maria Nikolaevna, excuse me, Petya has a question for you. I'll give him the phone now.
There was nowhere to go, and Petya muttered embarrassedly:
Aunt Masha, maybe I should buy you something?
Petya didn’t understand what happened at the other end of the line, only the neighbor answered in some way. in an unusual voice. She thanked him and asked him to bring milk if he went to the store. She doesn't need anything else. She thanked me again.
When Petya called her apartment, he heard the hasty clatter of crutches. Aunt Masha didn’t want to make him wait extra seconds.
While the neighbor was looking for money, the boy, as if by chance, began to ask her about the missing parrot. Aunt Masha willingly told us about the color and behavior...
There were several parrots of this color in the pet store. Petya took a long time to choose. When he brought his gift to Aunt Masha, then... I don’t undertake to describe what happened next.
V. Rozov “Wild Duck” from the series “Touching War”)
The food was bad, I was always hungry. Sometimes food was given once a day, and then in the evening. Oh, how I wanted to eat! And so on one of these days, when dusk was already approaching, and there was not yet a crumb in our mouths, we, about eight soldiers, sat on the high grassy bank of a quiet river and almost whined. Suddenly we see him without his gymnast. Holding something in his hands. Another of our comrades is running towards us. He ran up. Radiant face. The package is his tunic, and something is wrapped in it.
Look! – Boris exclaims triumphantly. He unfolds the tunic, and in it... is a live wild duck.
I see: sitting, hiding behind a bush. I took off my shirt and - hop! Have food! Let's fry it.
The duck was weak and young. Turning her head from side to side, she looked at us with amazed beady eyes. She simply could not understand what kind of strange, cute creatures surrounded her and looked at her with such admiration. She did not struggle, did not quack, did not strain her neck to slip out of the hands that held her. No, she looked around gracefully and curiously. Beautiful duck! And we are rough, uncleanly shaven, hungry. Everyone admired the beauty. And a miracle happened, like in a good fairy tale. Somehow he simply said:
Let's go!
Several logical remarks were thrown, like: “What’s the point, there are eight of us, and she’s so small,” “More messing around!”, “Borya, bring her back.” And, no longer covering it with anything, Boris carefully carried the duck back. Returning, he said:
I let her into the water. She dove. I didn’t see where she surfaced. I waited and waited to look, but I didn’t see it. It's getting dark.
When life gets me down, when you start cursing everyone and everything, you lose faith in people and you want to scream, as I once heard the cry of one very famous person: “I don’t want to be with people, I want with dogs!” - in these moments of disbelief and despair, I remember the wild duck and think: no, no, you can believe in people. This will all pass, everything will be fine.
They may tell me; “Well, yes, it was you, intellectuals, artists, everything can be expected about you.” No, during the war everything got mixed up and turned into one whole - single and invisible. At least, the one where I served. There were two thieves in our group who had just been released from prison. One proudly told how he managed to steal a crane. Apparently he was talented. But he also said: “Let go!”
______________________________________________________________________________________
Parable about life - Life values
Once, one sage, standing in front of his students, did the following. He took a large glass vessel and filled it to the brim with large stones. Having done this, he asked the disciples if the vessel was full. Everyone confirmed that it was full.
Then the sage took a box of small pebbles, poured it into a vessel and gently shook it several times. The pebbles rolled into the gaps between the large stones and filled them. After this, he again asked the disciples if the vessel was now full. They again confirmed the fact - it is full.
And finally, the sage took a box of sand from the table and poured it into the vessel. Sand, of course, filled the last gaps in the vessel.
Now,” the sage addressed the students, “I would like you to be able to recognize your life in this vessel!”
Large stones represent important things in life: your family, your loved one, your health, your children - those things that, even without everything else, can still fill your life. Small pebbles represent less important things, such as your job, your apartment, your house or your car. Sand symbolizes the little things in life, the hustle and bustle of everyday life. If you fill your vessel with sand first, there will be no room left for larger stones.
It’s the same in life - if you spend all your energy on small things, then there will be nothing left for big things.
Therefore, pay attention first of all to important things - find time for your children and loved ones, take care of your health. You will still have enough time for work, for home, for celebrations and everything else. Watch your big stones - only they have a price, everything else is just sand.
A. Green. Scarlet Sails
She sat with her legs tucked up and her arms around her knees. Attentively leaning towards the sea, she looked at the horizon with large eyes in which there was nothing adult left - the eyes of a child. Everything she had been waiting for so long and passionately was happening there - at the end of the world. She saw an underwater hill in the land of distant abysses; climbing plants flowed upward from its surface; Among their round leaves, pierced at the edge by a stem, fanciful flowers shone. The upper leaves glittered on the surface of the ocean; those who knew nothing, as Assol knew, saw only awe and brilliance.
A ship rose from the thicket; he surfaced and stopped in the very middle of dawn. From this distance he was visible as clear as clouds. Scattering joy, he burned like wine, rose, blood, lips, scarlet velvet and crimson fire. The ship went straight to Assol. The wings of foam fluttered under the powerful pressure of its keel; Already, having stood up, the girl pressed her hands to her chest, when a wonderful play of light turned into a swell; the sun rose, and the bright fullness of the morning tore the covers off everything that was still basking, stretching on the sleepy earth.
The girl sighed and looked around. The music fell silent, but Assol was still in the power of its sonorous choir. This impression gradually weakened, then became a memory and, finally, just fatigue. She lay down on the grass, yawned and, blissfully closing her eyes, fell asleep - truly, soundly, like a young nut, sleep, without worries and dreams.
She was awakened by a fly wandering over her bare foot. Restlessly turning her leg, Assol woke up; sitting, she pinned up her disheveled hair, so Gray's ring reminded her of herself, but considering it nothing more than a stalk stuck between her fingers, she straightened them; Since the obstacle did not disappear, she impatiently raised her hand to her eyes and straightened up, instantly jumping up with the force of a spraying fountain.
Gray's radiant ring shone on her finger, as if on someone else's - she could not recognize it as hers at that moment, she did not feel her finger. - “Whose thing is this? Whose joke? - she quickly cried. - Am I dreaming? Maybe I found it and forgot?” Grasping the right hand with her left hand, on which there was a ring, she looked around in amazement, torturing the sea and green thickets with her gaze; but no one moved, no one hid in the bushes, and in the blue, far-illuminated sea there was no sign, and a blush covered Assol, and the voices of the heart said a prophetic “yes.” There were no explanations for what had happened, but without words or thoughts she found them in her strange feeling, and the ring already became close to her. Trembling, she pulled it off her finger; holding it in a handful like water, she examined it with all her soul, all her heart, all the jubilation and clear superstition of her youth, then, hiding it behind her bodice, Assol buried her face in her palms, from under which a smile burst uncontrollably, and, lowering her head, slowly I went the opposite way.
So, by chance, as people who can read and write say, Gray and Assol found each other on the morning of a summer day full of inevitability.
"A note". Tatyana Petrosyan
The note looked most harmless.
According to all gentlemanly laws, it should have revealed an inky face and a friendly explanation: “Sidorov is a goat.”
So Sidorov, without suspecting anything bad, instantly unfolded the message... and was dumbfounded.
Inside, in large, beautiful handwriting, it was written: “Sidorov, I love you!”
Sidorov felt mockery in the roundness of the handwriting. Who wrote this to him?
(As usual they grinned. But this time they didn’t.)
But Sidorov immediately noticed that Vorobyova was looking at him without blinking. It doesn’t just look like that, but with meaning!
There was no doubt: she wrote the note. But then it turns out that Vorobyova loves him?!
And then Sidorov’s thought reached a dead end and fluttered helplessly, like a fly in a glass. WHAT DOES LOVES MEAN??? What consequences will this entail and what should Sidorov do now?..
“Let’s think logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. “What, for example, do I love? Pears! I love it, which means I always want to eat it...”
At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long uncut... well, yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyov greedily gnawed at a bony chicken leg...
“You need to pull yourself together,” Sidorov pulled himself together. (My hands turned out to be dirty. But Sidorov ignored the little things.) “I love not only pears, but also my parents. However, there is no question of eating them. Mom bakes sweet pies. Dad often carries me around his neck. And I love them for that..."
Then Vorobyova turned around again, and Sidorov thought with sadness that he would now have to bake sweet pies for her all day long and carry her to school around his neck in order to justify such a sudden and crazy love. He took a closer look and discovered that Vorobyova was not thin and would probably not be easy to wear.
“All is not lost,” Sidorov did not give up. “I also love our dog Bobik. Especially when I train him or take him out for a walk...” Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyov could make him jump for every pie, and then he will take you for a walk, holding the leash tightly and not allowing you to deviate either to the right or to the left...
“...I love the cat Murka, especially when you blow right into her ear...” Sidorov thought in despair, “no, that’s not it... I like to catch flies and put them in a glass... but this is too much... I love toys that you can break and see what's inside..."
The last thought made Sidorov feel unwell. There was only one salvation. He hastily tore a piece of paper out of the notebook, pursed his lips resolutely and in firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you too.” Let her be scared.
________________________________________________________________________________________
The candle was burning. Mike Gelprin
The bell rang when Andrei Petrovich had already lost all hope.
Hello, I'm following an ad. Do you give literature lessons?
Andrei Petrovich peered at the videophone screen. A man in his late thirties. Strictly dressed - suit, tie. He smiles, but his eyes are serious. Andrei Petrovich’s heart sank; he posted the ad online only out of habit. There were six calls in ten years. Three got the wrong number, two more turned out to be insurance agents working the old fashioned way, and one confused literature with a ligature.
“I give lessons,” Andrei Petrovich said, stuttering with excitement. - N-at home. Are you interested in literature?
“Interested,” the interlocutor nodded. - My name is Max. Let me know what the conditions are.
“For nothing!” - Andrei Petrovich almost burst out.
“Pay is hourly,” he forced himself to say. - By agreement. When would you like to start?
I, actually... - the interlocutor hesitated.
Let’s do it tomorrow,” Maxim said decisively. - Will ten in the morning suit you? I take the kids to school by nine and then I'm free until two.
“It will work,” Andrei Petrovich was delighted. - Write down the address.
Tell me, I'll remember.
That night Andrei Petrovich did not sleep, walked around the tiny room, almost a cell, not knowing what to do with his hands shaking from anxiety. For twelve years now he had been living on a beggar's allowance. From the very day he was fired.
“You are too narrow a specialist,” the director of the lyceum for children with humanitarian inclinations said then, hiding his eyes. - We value you as an experienced teacher, but unfortunately this is your subject. Tell me, do you want to retrain? The lyceum could partially pay the cost of training. Virtual ethics, the basics of virtual law, the history of robotics - you could very well teach this. Even cinema is still quite popular. Of course, he doesn’t have much time left, but for your lifetime... What do you think?
Andrei Petrovich refused, which he later regretted. It was not possible to find a new job, the literature remained in a few educational institutions, the last libraries were closing, philologists, one after another, retrained in different fields. For a couple of years he visited the thresholds of gymnasiums, lyceums and special schools. Then he stopped. I spent six months taking retraining courses. When his wife left, he left them too.
The savings quickly ran out, and Andrei Petrovich had to tighten his belt. Then sell the aircar, old but reliable. An antique set left over from my mother, with things behind it. And then... Andrei Petrovich felt sick every time he remembered this - then it was the turn of the books. Ancient, thick, paper ones, also from my mother. Collectors gave good money for rarities, so Count Tolstoy fed him for a whole month. Dostoevsky - two weeks. Bunin - one and a half.
As a result, Andrei Petrovich was left with fifty books - his favorite ones, re-read a dozen times, those that he could not part with. Remarque, Hemingway, Marquez, Bulgakov, Brodsky, Pasternak... The books stood on a bookcase, occupying four shelves, Andrei Petrovich wiped dust from the spines every day.
“If this guy, Maxim,” Andrei Petrovich thought randomly, nervously pacing from wall to wall, “if he... Then, perhaps, it will be possible to buy Balmont back. Or Murakami. Or Amadou."
It’s nothing, Andrei Petrovich suddenly realized. It doesn't matter whether you can buy it back. He can convey, this is it, this is the only important thing. Hand over! To convey to others what he knows, what he has.
Maxim rang the doorbell at exactly ten o'clock, every minute.
Come in,” Andrei Petrovich began to fuss. - Take a seat. Here, actually... Where would you like to start?
Maxim hesitated and carefully sat down on the edge of the chair.
Whatever you think is necessary. You see, I'm a layman. Full. They didn't teach me anything.
Yes, yes, of course,” Andrei Petrovich nodded. - Like everyone else. IN secondary schools literature has not been taught for almost a hundred years. And now they no longer teach in special schools.
Nowhere? - Maxim asked quietly.
I'm afraid not anywhere anymore. You see, at the end of the twentieth century a crisis began. There was no time to read. First for children, then the children grew up, and their children no longer had time to read. Even more time than parents. Other pleasures have appeared - mostly virtual. Games. All sorts of tests, quests... - Andrei Petrovich waved his hand. - Well, and of course, technology. Technical disciplines began to supplant the humanities. Cybernetics, quantum mechanics and electrodynamics, high energy physics. And literature, history, geography faded into the background. Especially literature. Are you following, Maxim?
Yes, please continue.
In the twenty-first century, books were no longer printed; paper was replaced by electronics. But even in the electronic version, the demand for literature fell rapidly, several times in each new generation compared to the previous one. As a result, the number of writers decreased, then there were none at all - people stopped writing. Philologists lasted a hundred years longer - due to what was written in the previous twenty centuries.
Andrei Petrovich fell silent and wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead with his hand.
It’s not easy for me to talk about this,” he finally said. - I realize that the process is natural. Literature died because it did not get along with progress. But here are the children, you understand... Children! Literature was what shaped minds. Especially poetry. That which determined a person’s inner world, his spirituality. Children grow up soulless, that’s what’s scary, that’s what’s terrible, Maxim!
I came to this conclusion myself, Andrei Petrovich. And that is why I turned to you.
Do you have children?
Yes,” Maxim hesitated. - Two. Pavlik and Anechka are the same age. Andrey Petrovich, I just need the basics. I will find literature on the Internet and read it. I just need to know what. And what to focus on. You learn me?
Yes,” Andrei Petrovich said firmly. - I’ll teach you.
He stood up, crossed his arms over his chest, and concentrated.
Pasternak,” he said solemnly. - Chalk, chalk all over the earth, to all limits. The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning...
Will you come tomorrow, Maxim? - Andrei Petrovich asked, trying to calm the trembling in his voice.
Definitely. Only now... You know, I work as a manager for a wealthy married couple. I manage the household, business, and balance the bills. My salary is low. But I,” Maxim looked around the room, “can bring food.” Some things, perhaps household appliances. On account of payment. Will it suit you?
Andrei Petrovich involuntarily blushed. He would be happy with it for nothing.
Of course, Maxim,” he said. - Thank you. I'm waiting for you tomorrow.
“Literature is not only what is written about,” said Andrei Petrovich, walking around the room. - This is also how it is written. Language, Maxim, is the very tool that great writers and poets used. Listen here.
Maxim listened intently. It seemed that he was trying to remember, to learn the teacher’s speech by heart.
Pushkin,” said Andrei Petrovich and began to recite.
"Tavrida", "Anchar", "Eugene Onegin".
Lermontov "Mtsyri".
Baratynsky, Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Blok, Balmont, Akhmatova, Gumilyov, Mandelstam, Vysotsky...
Maxim listened.
Aren't you tired? - asked Andrei Petrovich.
No, no, what are you talking about? Please continue.
The day gave way to a new one. Andrei Petrovich perked up, awakened to life, in which meaning suddenly appeared. Poetry was replaced by prose, which took much more time, but Maxim turned out to be a grateful student. He caught it on the fly. Andrei Petrovich never ceased to be amazed at how Maxim, who at first was deaf to the word, not perceiving, not feeling the harmony embedded in the language, comprehended it every day and knew it better, deeper than the previous one.
Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Dostoevsky, Turgenev, Bunin, Kuprin.
Bulgakov, Hemingway, Babel, Remarque, Marquez, Nabokov.
Eighteenth century, nineteenth, twentieth.
Classics, fiction, fantasy, detective.
Stevenson, Twain, Conan Doyle, Sheckley, Strugatsky, Weiner, Japrisot.
One day, on Wednesday, Maxim did not come. Andrei Petrovich spent the whole morning waiting, convincing himself that he could get sick. I couldn’t, whispered an inner voice, persistent and absurd. Scrupulous, pedantic Maxim could not. He has never been a minute late in a year and a half. And then he didn’t even call. By evening, Andrei Petrovich could no longer find a place for himself, and at night he never slept a wink. By ten in the morning he was completely exhausted, and when it became clear that Maxim would not come again, he wandered to the videophone.
The number has been disconnected from service,” said a mechanical voice.
The next few days passed like one bad dream. Even my favorite books did not save me from acute melancholy and a newly emerging feeling of worthlessness, which Andrei Petrovich did not remember for a year and a half. To call hospitals, morgues, there was an obsessive buzzing in my temple. So what should I ask? Or about whom? Didn’t a certain Maxim, about thirty years old, excuse me, I don’t know his last name?
Andrei Petrovich got out of the house when it became unbearable to be within four walls anymore.
Ah, Petrovich! - old man Nefyodov, a neighbor from below, greeted. - Long time no see. Why don’t you go out? Are you ashamed or something? So it seems like you have nothing to do with it.
In what sense am I ashamed? - Andrei Petrovich was dumbfounded.
Well, what is this, yours,” Nefyodov ran the edge of his hand across his throat. - Who came to see you. I kept wondering why Petrovich, in his old age, got involved with this public.
What are you about? - Andrei Petrovich felt cold inside. - With what audience?
It is known which one. I see these little darlings right away. I think I worked with them for thirty years.
With whom with them? - Andrei Petrovich begged. -What are you even talking about?
Don't you really know? - Nefyodov was alarmed. - Look at the news, they are talking about it everywhere.
Andrei Petrovich did not remember how he got to the elevator. He went up to the fourteenth and with shaking hands fumbled for the key in his pocket. On the fifth attempt, I opened it, trotted over to the computer, connected to the network, and scrolled through the news feed. My heart suddenly sank with pain. Maxim looked from the photo, the lines of italics under the photo blurred before his eyes.
“Caught by the owners,” Andrei Petrovich read from the screen with difficulty focusing his vision, “of stealing food, clothing and household appliances. Home robot tutor, DRG-439K series. Control program defect. He stated that he independently came to the conclusion about childhood lack of spirituality, which he decided to fight. Unauthorizedly taught children subjects outside school curriculum. He hid his activities from his owners. Withdrawn from circulation... In fact, disposed of.... The public is concerned about the manifestation... The issuing company is ready to bear... A specially created committee decided...".
Andrei Petrovich stood up. On stiff legs he walked to the kitchen. He opened the cupboard and on the bottom shelf stood an open bottle of cognac that Maxim had brought as payment for his tuition. Andrei Petrovich tore off the cork and looked around in search of a glass. I couldn’t find it and tore it out of my throat. He coughed, dropped the bottle, and staggered back towards the wall. His knees gave way and Andrei Petrovich sank heavily to the floor.
Down the drain, came the final thought. Everything is down the drain. All this time he trained the robot.
A soulless, defective piece of hardware. I put everything I have into it. Everything that makes life worth living. Everything he lived for.
Andrei Petrovich, overcoming the pain that grabbed his heart, stood up. He dragged himself to the window and closed the transom tightly. Now a gas stove. Open the burners and wait half an hour. That's all.
The doorbell rang and caught him halfway to the stove. Andrei Petrovich, gritting his teeth, moved to open it. Two children stood on the threshold. A boy of about ten years old. And the girl is a year or two younger.
Do you give literature lessons? - the girl asked, looking from under her bangs falling into her eyes.
What? - Andrei Petrovich was taken aback. - Who are you?
“I’m Pavlik,” the boy took a step forward. - This is Anya, my sister. We are from Max.
From... From whom?!
From Max,” the boy repeated stubbornly. - He told me to convey it. Before he... what's his name...
Chalk, chalk all over the earth to all limits! - the girl suddenly shouted loudly.
Andrei Petrovich grabbed his heart, swallowing convulsively, stuffed it, pushed it back into his chest.
Are you kidding? - he said quietly, barely audible.
The candle was burning on the table, the candle was burning,” the boy said firmly. - He told me to convey this, Max. Will you teach us?
Andrei Petrovich, clinging to the door frame, stepped back.
“Oh my God,” he said. - Come in. Come in, children.
____________________________________________________________________________________
Leonid Kaminsky
Composition
Lena sat at the table and did her homework. It was getting dark, but from the snow that lay in drifts in the yard, it was still light in the room.
In front of Lena lay an open notebook, in which only two phrases were written:
How I help my mother.
Composition.
There was no further work. Somewhere at the neighbors' house a tape recorder was playing. Alla Pugacheva could be heard insistently repeating: “I really want summer not to end!..”.
“But it’s true,” Lena thought dreamily, “it would be good if summer didn’t end!.. Sunbathe yourself, swim, and no essays for you!”
She read the headline again: How I Help Mom. “How can I help? And when to help here, if they ask so much for the house!
The light came on in the room: my mother entered.
“Sit, sit, I won’t bother you, I’ll just tidy up the room a little.” “She began wiping the bookshelves with a rag.
Lena began to write:
“I help my mother with the housework. I clean the apartment, wipe the dust off the furniture with a rag.”
- Why did you throw your clothes all over the room? - Mom asked. The question was, of course, rhetorical, because my mother did not expect an answer. She began putting things in the closet.
“I’m putting things in their places,” Lena wrote.
“By the way, your apron needs to be washed,” mom continued talking to herself.
“Washing clothes,” Lena wrote, then thought and added: “And ironing.”
“Mom, a button on my dress came off,” Lena reminded and wrote: “I sew buttons on if necessary.”
Mom sewed on a button, then went out to the kitchen and returned with a bucket and mop.
Pushing the chairs aside, she began to wipe the floor.
“Well, raise your legs,” said mom, deftly wielding a rag.
- Mom, you're bothering me! – Lena grumbled and, without lowering her feet, wrote: “Washing the floors.”
There was something burning coming from the kitchen.
- Oh, I have potatoes on the stove! – Mom shouted and rushed to the kitchen.
“I’m peeling potatoes and cooking dinner,” Lena wrote.
- Lena, have dinner! – Mom called from the kitchen.
- Now! – Lena leaned back in her chair and stretched.
A bell rang in the hallway.
- Lena, this is for you! - Mom shouted.
Olya, Lena’s classmate, entered the room, blushing from the frost.
- I do not for a long time. Mom sent for bread, and I decided to go to you on the way.
Lena took a pen and wrote: “I’m going to the store for bread and other products.”
- Are you writing an essay? – Olya asked. - Let me see.
Olya looked at the notebook and burst into tears:
- Wow! Yes, this is all not true! You made it all up!
– Who said you can’t compose? – Lena was offended. “That’s why it’s called so-chi-ne-nie!”
_____________________________________________________________________________________
Texts for learning by heart for the competition “Living Classics-2017”
Texts for the “Living Classics” competition
"But what if?" Olga Tikhomirova
It has been raining since morning. Alyoshka jumped over the puddles and walked quickly - quickly. No, he wasn't late for school at all. He just noticed Tanya Shibanova’s blue cap from afar.
You can't run: you'll be out of breath. And she might think that he was running after her all the way.
It’s okay, he’ll catch up with her anyway. He’ll catch up and say... But what to say? It's been more than a week since we quarreled. Or maybe we should go ahead and say: “Tanya, let’s go to the cinema today?” Or maybe give her a smooth black pebble that he brought from the sea?...
What if Tanya says: “Take away your cobblestone, Vertisheev. What do I need it for?!”
Alyosha slowed down, but, looking at the blue cap, he hurried up again.
Tanya walked calmly and listened to the cars rustling their wheels on the wet pavement. So she looked back and saw Alyoshka, who was just jumping over a puddle.
She walked more quietly, but did not look back again. It would be nice if he caught up with her near the front garden. They would walk together, and Tanya would ask: “Do you know, Alyosha, why some maples have red leaves and others have yellow?” Alyoshka will look and look and... Or maybe he won’t look at all, but will only mutter: “Read books, Shiba. Then you will know everything.” After all, they quarreled...
There was a school around the corner of the large house, and Tanya thought that Alyoshka would not have time to catch up with her.. We need to stop. But you can’t just stand in the middle of the sidewalk.
IN big house There was a clothing store, Tanya went to the window and began to look at the mannequins.
Alyoshka came up and stood next to him... Tanya looked at him and smiled slightly... “He’ll say something now,” thought Alyoshka and, in order to get ahead of Tanya, he said:
Ahh, it's you, Shiba.. Hello...
“Hello, Vertisheev,” she said.
Shipilov Andrey Mikhailovich “True Story”
Vaska Petukhov came up with this device: you press a button, and everyone around you starts telling the truth. Vaska made this device and brought it to school. Marya Ivanovna comes into the classroom and says: “Hello guys, I’m very glad to see you!” And Vaska presses the button - once! “But to be honest,” continues Marya Ivanovna, “then I’m not happy at all, why should I be happy?” I'm tired of you worse than bitter radish in two quarters! You teach you, teach you, put your soul into you - and no gratitude. Tired of it! I won't stand on ceremony with you anymore. Anything - a couple at once!
And during recess, Kosichkina comes up to Vaska and says: “Vaska, let’s be friends with you.” “Come on,” says Vaska, and he presses the button – once! “Only I’m not just going to be friends with you,” Kosichkina continues, but with a specific purpose. I know your uncle works at Luzhniki; So, when “Ivanushki-International” or Philip Kirkorov perform again, then you will take me with you to the concert for free.
Vaska felt sad. He walks around school all day, pressing a button. As long as the button is not pressed, everything is fine, but as soon as you press it, this starts happening!..
And after school it’s New Year’s Eve. Santa Claus comes into the hall and says: “Hello, guys, I’m Santa Claus!” Vaska presses the button - once! “Although,” continues Father Frost, “in fact, I’m not Father Frost at all, but the school watchman Sergei Sergeevich.” The school doesn’t have the money to hire a real artist to play Grandfather Moroz’s role, so the director asked me to advocate for time off. One performance – half a day off. Only, I think I made a mistake; I should have taken the whole day off, not just half. What do you guys think?
Vaska felt very bad at heart. He comes home sad and sad. - What happened, Vaska? - Mom asks, “You don’t have a face at all.” “Yes,” says Vaska, “nothing special, I was just disappointed in people.” “Oh, Vaska,” my mother laughed, “how funny you are; how I love you! - Is it true? - Vaska asks, - and he presses the button - One! - Is it true! - Mom laughs. - True true? - says Vaska, and he presses the button even harder. - True true! - Mom answers. “Well, then that’s it,” says Vaska, “I love you too.” Very very!
“Groom from 3B” Postnikov Valentin
Yesterday afternoon, during math class, I firmly decided that it was time for me to get married. And what? I’m already in third grade, but I still don’t have a fiancee. When, if not now. A couple more years and the train left. Dad often tells me: At your age, people already commanded a regiment. And it is true. But first I have to get married. I told my to the best friend Petka Amosov. He sits at the same desk with me.
– “You’re absolutely right,” Petka said decisively. - We will choose a bride for you at the big break. From our class.
During the break, the first thing he and I did was make a list of brides and began to think about which one I should marry.
– “Marry Svetka Fedulova,” says Petka.
– Why on Svetka? – I was surprised.
– Oddball! She’s an excellent student,” says Petka. “You’ll be copying from her for the rest of your life.”
– No, I say. – Svetka is reluctant. She was cramming. He will force me to teach lessons. He will wander around the apartment like a clockwork and whine in a nasty voice: - Learn your lessons, learn your lessons.
– Let's cross it out! – Petka said decisively.
– Or maybe I should marry Soboleva? - I ask.
– On Nastya?
– Well, yes. She lives next to the school. It’s convenient for me to see her off,” I say. – It’s not like Katka Merkulova lives behind the railway. If I marry her, why should I trudge so far all my life? My mother doesn’t allow me to walk in that area at all.
– That’s right,” Petka shook his head. “But Nastya’s dad doesn’t even have a car.” But Mashka Kruglova has it. A real Mercedes, you'll drive it to the movies.
– But Masha is fat.
– Have you ever seen Mercedes? – asks Petka. - Three Mashas will fit in there.
– “That’s not the point,” I say. - I don’t like Masha.
– Then let's marry you to Olga Bublikova. Her grandmother cooks - you'll lick your fingers. Do you remember Bublikova treating us to grandma’s pies? Oh, and delicious. You won't be lost with such a grandmother. Even in old age.
– Happiness doesn’t lie in pies, I say.
– And what? – Petka is surprised.
– “I would like to marry Varka Koroleva,” I say. - Wow!
– And what about Varka? – Petka is surprised. - No A's, no Mercedes, no grandmother. What kind of wife is this?
– That's why her eyes are beautiful.
– Well, there you go,” Petka laughed. – The most important thing in a wife is the dowry. This is what the great Russian writer Gogol said, I heard it myself. And what kind of dowry is this - eyes? Laughter, and that's all.
– “You don’t understand anything,” I waved my hand. - Eyes are a dowry. The best!
That was the end of the matter. But I haven’t changed my mind about getting married. Just know!
Victor Golyavkin. Things are not going my way
One day I come home from school. That day I just got a bad grade. I walk around the room and sing. I sing and sing so that no one thinks that I got a bad mark. Otherwise they will ask: “Why are you gloomy, why are you thoughtful?”
Father says:
- Why is he singing like that?
And mom says:
- He is probably in a cheerful mood, so he sings.
Father says:
- He probably got an A, and that’s what’s fun for the man. It's always fun when you do something good.
When I heard this, I sang even louder.
Then the father says:
- Okay, Vovka, please your father and show him the diary.
Then I immediately stopped singing.
- For what? - I ask.
- “I see,” says the father, “you really want to show me the diary.”
He takes the diary from me, sees a deuce there and says:
- Surprisingly, I got a D and is singing! What, is he crazy? Come on, Vova, come here! Do you happen to have a fever?
- “I don’t have,” I say, “no fever...
The father spread his hands and said:
- Then you need to be punished for this singing...
That's how unlucky I am!
Parable “What you do will come back to you”
At the beginning of the twentieth century, a Scottish farmer was returning home and passed by a marshy area. Suddenly he heard cries for help. The farmer rushed to help and saw a boy who was being sucked into its terrible abysses by the swamp slurry. The boy tried to climb out of the terrible mass of the swamp, but his every movement condemned him to quick death. The boy screamed. out of despair and fear.
The farmer quickly cut down a thick branch, carefully
approached and extended a saving branch to the drowning man. The boy got out to safety. He was trembling, he could not stop crying for a long time, but the main thing was that he was saved!
- “Let’s go to my house,” the farmer suggested to him. - You need to calm down, dry out and warm up.
- No, no,” the boy shook his head, “my dad is waiting for me.” He's probably very worried.
Looking gratefully into the eyes of his savior, the boy ran away...
In the morning, the farmer saw a rich carriage pulled by luxurious thoroughbred horses drive up to his house. A richly dressed gentleman came out of the carriage and asked:
- Was it you who saved my son's life yesterday?
- Yes, I am,” answered the farmer.
- How much do I owe you?
- Don't offend me, sir. You don't owe me anything because I did what a normal person should have done.
The class froze. Isabella Mikhailovna bent over the magazine and finally said:
- Rogov.
Everyone sighed with relief and slammed their textbooks shut. And Rogov went to the board, scratched himself and for some reason said:
- You look good today, Isabella Mikhailovna!
Isabella Mikhailovna took off her glasses:
- Well, well, Rogov. Get started.
Rogov sniffled and began:
- Your hair is neat! Not what I have.
Isabella Mikhailovna stood up and walked over to the world map:
- Haven't you learned your lesson?
- Yes! - Rogov exclaimed passionately. - I repent! Nothing can be hidden from you! The experience of working with children is enormous!
Isabella Mikhailovna smiled and said:
- Oh, Rogov, Rogov! Show me where Africa is.
“There,” said Rogov and waved his hand out the window.
“Well, sit down,” sighed Isabella Mikhailovna. - Three...
During recess, Rogov gave interviews to his comrades:
- The main thing is to start this kikimore about eyes...
Isabella Mikhailovna was just passing by.
“Ah,” Rogov reassured his comrades. - This deaf grouse can’t hear more than two steps.
Isabella Mikhailovna stopped and looked at Rogov so that Rogov understood: the grouse could hear further than two steps.
The next day, Isabella Mikhailovna again called Rogov to the board.
Rogov turned white as a sheet and croaked:
- You called me yesterday!
“And I want more,” said Isabella Mikhailovna and squinted.
“Oh, your smile is so dazzling,” Rogov mumbled and fell silent.
- What else? - Isabella Mikhailovna asked dryly.
“Your voice is also pleasant,” Rogov squeezed out.
“Yes,” said Isabella Mikhailovna. - You haven't learned your lesson.
“You see everything, you know everything,” Rogov said listlessly. - But for some reason you went to school, people like me will ruin your health. You should go to the sea now, write poetry, meet a good person...
Bowing her head, Isabella Mikhailovna thoughtfully ran a pencil over the paper. Then she sighed and said quietly:
- Well, sit down, Rogov. Troika.
KOTINA KINDNESS Fedor Abramov
Nikolai K., nicknamed Kotya the Glass, was quite dashing during the war. The father is at the front, the mother died, and they don’t take him to the orphanage: there is a dear uncle. True, my uncle is disabled, but with a good job (a tailor), why should he warm up an orphan?
The uncle, however, did not warm the orphan, and the sonfront-line soldier often fed from the trash heap. Collects potato peelings and cooks them in a canAnke on a fire pit by the river, in which sometimes it will be possible to catch some minnow, and that’s what he lived for.
After the war, Kotya served in the army, built a house, started a family, and then took in his uncle -That by that time he was completely decrepit, in his ninth decade
has passed.
Uncle Kotya did not refuse anything. What he and his family ate, he put in his uncle’s cup. And he didn’t even share a glass unless he was taking communion himself.
- Eat, drink, uncle! “I don’t forget my relatives,” Kotya said every time.
- Don't forget, don't forget, Mikolayushko.
- Did you offend me regarding food and drink?
- Didn't offend, didn't offend.
- So you sheltered a helpless old man?
- Sheltered, sheltered.
- But how come you didn’t give me shelter during the war? The newspapers write that other people's children were taken into care because of the war. Folk. Do you remember how they sang in the song? “There is a people’s war, a holy war...” Am I really a stranger to you?
- Oh, oh, the truth is yours, Mikolayushko.
- Don't groan! Then I should have groaned when I was rummaging in the garbage pit...
Kotya usually ended the table conversation with a tear:
- Well, uncle, uncle, thank you! The deceased father would bow at your feet if he returned from the war. After all, he thought, the son of Yevon, a miserable orphan, under his uncle’s wing, and the crow warmed me with its wing more than my uncle. Do you understand this with your old head? After all, moose protect little moose calves from wolves, but you’re not an elk. You are my dear uncle... Eh!..
And then the old man began to cry out loud. For exactly two months, Kotya raised his uncle like this, day after day, and on the third month, his uncle hanged himself.
Excerpt from the novel Mark Twain's "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn"
I closed the door behind me. Then I turned around and looked - there he was, dad! I was always afraid of him - he really beat me up. My father was about fifty years old, and looked no less. His hair is long, unkempt and dirty, hanging in clumps, and only his eyes shine through them, as if through bushes. There is not a trace of blood in the face - it is completely pale; but not as pale as other people’s, but such that it’s scary and disgusting to look at, like a fish’s belly or like a frog. And the clothes are complete trash, nothing to look at. I stood and looked at him, and he looked at me, swaying slightly in his chair. He looked me over from head to toe, then said:
- Look how you dressed up - wow! You probably think that you’re an important bird now, or what?
“Maybe I think so, maybe not,” I say.
- Look, don’t be too rude! - Got crazy while I was away! I’ll deal with you quickly, I’ll knock your arrogance off you! You’ve also become educated; they say you can read and write. Do you think your father is no match for you now, since he is illiterate? I'll beat all this out of you. Who told you to gain stupid nobility? Tell me, who told you to do this?
- The widow ordered.
- Widow? That's how it is! And who allowed the widow to poke her nose into something that wasn’t her own business?
- Nobody allowed it.
- Okay, I’ll show her how to meddle where they don’t ask! And you, look, quit your school. Do you hear? I'll show them! They taught the boy to turn up his nose in front of his own father, he assumed such importance! Well, if I ever see you hanging around this very school, stick with me! Your mother could neither read nor write, so she died illiterate. And all your relatives died illiterate. I can’t read or write, but he, look at what a dandy he’s dressed up as! I'm not the kind of person to put up with this, do you hear? Come on, read it, I’ll listen.
I took the book and started reading something about General Washington and the war. Not even half a minute had passed before he hit the book with his fist and it flew across the room.
- Right. You know how to read. But I didn’t believe you. Look at me, stop wondering, I won’t tolerate this! Follow
I'll be you, such a dandy, and if I just catch you near this very
school, I'll take all the skin off! I’ll pour it into you - before you know it! Good son, nothing to say!
He picked up a blue and yellow picture of a boy with cows and asked:
- What is this?
- They gave it to me because I am a good student. He tore the picture and said:
- I’ll give you something too: a good belt!
He muttered and grumbled something under his breath for a long time, then said:
- Just think, what a sissy! And he has a bed, and sheets, and a mirror, and a carpet on the floor - and his own father should be lying in a tannery along with the pigs! Good son, nothing to say! Well, I’ll deal with you quickly, I’ll beat all the crap out of you! Look, he assumed importance...
Previously, I didn’t really like studying, but now I decided that
I will definitely go to school, to spite my father.
SWEET JOB Sergey Stepanov
The boys sat at a table in the yard and languished from idleness. It's hot to play football, but it's a long way to go to the river. And we went like this twice today.
Dimka came up with a bag of sweets. He gave everyone a piece of candy and said:
- You’re playing the fool here, and I got a job.
- What job?
- A taster at a confectionery factory. I took the work home.
- Are you serious? - the boys got excited.
- Well, you see.
- What kind of work do you have there?
- I'm trying some sweets. How are they made? They pour a bag of granulated sugar, a bag of powdered milk into a large vat, then a bucket of cocoa, a bucket of nuts... And if someone... extra kilos will it fill you with nuts? Or vice versa...
“Quite the opposite,” someone interjected.
- In the end, you have to try what happened. You need a person with good taste. And they can no longer eat it themselves. Not only that, they can’t look at these candies anymore! That's why they have automatic lines everywhere. And the result is brought to us, the tasters. Well, we try and say: everything is fine, you can take it to the store. Or: it would be nice to add raisins here and make a new variety called “Zyu-zyu”.
- Wow, great! Dimka, you ask, do they need more tasters?
- I "ll ask.
- I'd like to go to the station chocolates went. I'm good at them.
- And I agree with caramel. Dimka, do they pay wages there?
- No, they only pay with sweets.
- Dimka, let’s come up with a new type of candy now, and you’ll offer it to them tomorrow!
Petrov came up, stood next to him for a while and said:
-Who are you listening to? Didn't he deceive you enough? Dimka, admit it: you’re making a fool of yourself!
- You’re always like this, Petrov. You’ll come and ruin everything. You won't let me dream.
Ivan Yakimov “Strange Procession”
In the fall, on Nastasia the Shepherd, when they were feeding the shepherds in the yards - they were thanking them for saving their livestock - Mitrokha Vanyugin’s ram went missing. I searched and searched for Mitrokh, but there was no sheep anywhere, even for the life of me. He began to walk around houses and yards. He visited five hosts, and then directed his steps to Macrida and Epiphanes. He comes in, and the whole family is slurping fatty lamb soup, only the spoons flicker.
“Bread and salt,” says Mitrokha, looking sideways at the table.
Come in, Mitrofan Kuzmich, you will be a guest. “Sit down and sip some soup with us,” the owners invite.
Thank you. No way, they slaughtered a sheep?
Thank God they stabbed him to death, he'll stop accumulating fat.
“I can’t imagine where the ram could have disappeared to,” Mitrokha sighed and, after a pause, asked: “Didn’t he come to you by chance?”
Or maybe he did, we need to look in the barn.
Or maybe he went under the knife? – the guest narrowed his eyes.
“Maybe he got under the knife,” the owner answers, not at all embarrassed.
Don't joke, Epifan Averyanovich, you're not in the dark, tea, you were slaughtering a sheep, you have to distinguish yours from someone else's.
Yes, these sheep are all gray, like wolves, so who can tell them apart, said Makrida.
Show me the skin. I recognize my sheep in no time.
The owner carries the skin.
Well, that’s right, my ram! - Mitrokha rushed from the bench. - There’s a black spot on the back, and on the tail, look, the fur is singed: Blind Manyokha, she set it on fire with a torch while she was giving it water. - How does this work out?, rowing in the middle of the day?
We didn’t do it on purpose, sorry, Kuzmich. He was standing right at the door, damned, who knew he was yours,” the owners shrug their shoulders. “Don’t tell anyone, for God’s sake.” Take our ram and that's the end of the matter.
No, not the end! - Mitrokha jumped up and down. “Your ram is a runt, a lamb against mine.” Turn my ram!
How can you get it back if it's half eaten? – the owners are perplexed.
Turn over everything that is left, pay money for the rest.
An hour later, from the house of Makrida and Epiphanes to the house of Mitrokha, in front of the whole village, a strange procession was moving. Epiphanes with a lamb skin under his arm walked in front, crouching on his right leg, Mitrokha walked importantly behind him with a bag of lamb on his shoulder, and Makrida brought up the rear. . She trotted along with cast iron in her outstretched arms - carrying half-eaten soup from Mitrokhin's sheep. The ram, although disassembled, returned to its owner again.
Bobik visiting Barbos N. Nosov
Bobik saw a comb on the table and asked:
What kind of saw do you have?
What a saw! This is a scallop.
What is it for?
Oh you! - said Barbos. “It’s immediately obvious that he’s lived in a kennel all his life.” Don't know what a comb is for? Comb your hair.
What's it like to comb your hair?
Barbos took a comb and began to comb the hair on his head:
Look how you should comb your hair. Go to the mirror and comb your hair.
Bobik took the comb, went to the mirror and saw his reflection in it.
Listen,” he shouted, pointing to the mirror, “there’s some kind of dog there!”
Yes, it’s you yourself in the mirror! - Barbos laughed.
Like me? I’m here, and there’s another dog there. Barbos also went to the mirror. Bobik saw his reflection and shouted:
Well, now there are two of them!
Not really! - said Barbos. “It’s not two of them, but two of us.” They are there, in the mirror, lifeless.
Like inanimate? - Bobik shouted. - They're moving!
What a weirdo! - Barbos answered. “We are the ones moving.” You see, there is one dog there that looks like me! - That's right, it looks like it! - Bobik was happy. Exactly like you!
And the other dog looks like you.
What you! - Bobik answered. “There’s some kind of nasty dog there, and its paws are crooked.”
The same paws as yours.
No, you're deceiving me! You put some two dogs there and you think I’ll believe you,” Bobik said.
He began to comb his hair in front of the mirror, then suddenly laughed:
Look, that weirdo in the mirror is also combing his hair! This is hilarious!
Barbosonlysnorted and stepped aside.
Victor Dragunsky “Topsy-turvy”
One day I was sitting and sitting and out of the blue I suddenly thought of something that surprised even myself. I thought that how nice it would be if everything around the world were arranged in reverse. Well, for example, for children to be in charge in all matters and adults would have to obey them in everything, in everything. In general, so that adults are like children, and children are like adults. That would be wonderful, it would be very interesting.
Firstly, I imagine how my mother would “like” such a story, that I walk around and command her as I want, and my dad would probably “like” it too, but there’s nothing to say about my grandmother. Needless to say, I would remember everything to them! For example, my mother would be sitting at dinner, and I would tell her:
“Why did you start a fashion for eating without bread? Here's more news! Look at yourself in the mirror, who do you look like? Looks like Koschey! Eat now, they tell you! - And she would start eating with her head down, and I would just give the command: - Faster! Don't hold it by the cheek! Are you thinking again? Are you still solving the world's problems? Chew it properly! And don’t rock your chair!”
And then dad would come in after work, and before he even had time to undress, I would already shout:
“Yeah, he showed up! We must always wait for you! Wash your hands now! As it should be, as it should be, there is no need to smear the dirt. It's scary to look at the towel after you. Brush three times and don’t skimp on the soap. Come on, show me your nails! It's horror, not nails. It's just claws! Where are the scissors? Don't move! I don’t cut any meat, and I cut it very carefully. Don't sniffle, you're not a girl... That's it. Now sit down at the table.”
He would sit down and quietly say to his mother:
“Well, how are you?”
And she would also say quietly:
“Nothing, thank you!”
And I would immediately:
“Talkers at the table! When I eat, I am deaf and dumb! Remember this for the rest of your life. Golden Rule! Dad! Put down the newspaper now, your punishment is mine!”
And they would sit like silk, and when my grandmother came, I would squint, clasp my hands and shout:
"Dad! Mother! Take a look at our grandma! What a view! The coat is open, the hat is on the back of the head! The cheeks are red, the whole neck is wet! Good, nothing to say. Admit it, I was playing hockey again! What kind of dirty stick is this? Why did you drag her into the house? What? It's a stick! Get her out of my sight now - out the back door!”
Here I would walk around the room and say to all three of them:
“After lunch, everyone sit down for your homework, and I’ll go to the cinema!”
Of course, they would immediately whine and whine:
“And you and I! And we want to go to the cinema too!”
And I would tell them:
“Nothing, nothing! Yesterday we went to a birthday party, on Sunday I took you to the circus! Look! I liked having fun every day. Stay at home! Here’s thirty kopecks for ice cream, that’s all!”
Then the grandmother would pray:
“Take me at least! After all, each child can take one adult with them for free!”
But I would dodge, I would say:
“And people over seventy years old are not allowed to enter this picture. Stay at home, fool!”
And I would walk past them, deliberately clicking my heels loudly, as if I didn’t notice that their eyes were all wet, and I would start getting dressed, and would twirl around in front of the mirror for a long time, and would hum, and this would make them even worse they were tormented, and I would open the door to the stairs and say...
But I didn’t have time to think of what I would say, because at that time my mother came in, the real one, alive, and said:
- You're still sitting. Eat now, look who you look like? Looks like Koschey!
Gianni RodariInside out questions
Once upon a time there was a boy who spent whole days pestering everyone with questions. There is, of course, nothing wrong with this; on the contrary, curiosity is a commendable thing. But the trouble is that no one was able to answer this boy’s questions.
For example, he comes one day and asks:
- Why do the boxes have a table?
Of course, people only opened their eyes in surprise or, just in case, answered:
- Boxes are used to put something in them. Well, let's say, dinnerware.
- I know what the boxes are for. But why do the boxes have tables?
People shook their heads and hurried to leave. Another time he asked:
- Why does the tail have a fish?
Or more:
- Why does the mustache have a cat?
People shrugged their shoulders and hurried to leave, because everyone had their own things to do.
The boy grew up, but still remained a little boy, and not just a little boy, but a little boy inside out. Even as an adult, he walked around and pestered everyone with questions. It goes without saying that no one, not a single person, could answer them. Completely desperate, the little guy retreated inside out to the top of the mountain, built himself a hut and there, in his freedom, came up with more and more new questions. He came up with them, wrote them down in a notebook, and then racked his brains, trying to find the answer. However, never in his life did he answer any of his questions.
And how could he answer if in his notebook it was written: “Why does the shadow have a pine tree?” "Why don't clouds write letters?" "Why don't postage stamps drink beer?" He began to have headaches from the tension, but he didn’t pay attention to it and kept coming up with his endless questions. Little by little, he grew a long beard, but he didn’t even think about trimming it. Instead he came up with new question: "Why does a beard have a face?"
In a word, he was an eccentric like few. When he died, a scientist began to research his life and made an amazing scientific discovery. It turned out that this little guy had been accustomed to putting his stockings on inside out since childhood and had been wearing them that way all his life. He had never been able to put them on properly. That is why he could not learn to ask the right questions until his death.
And look at your stockings, are you wearing them correctly?
THE SENSITIVE COLONEL O. Henry
The sun is shining brightly and the birds are singing cheerfully on the branches. Peace and harmony are spread throughout nature. A visitor sits at the entrance to a small suburban hotel, quietly smoking a pipe, waiting for the train.
But then a tall man in boots and a hat with wide, down-turned brims comes out of the hotel with a six-shooter revolver in his hand and shoots. The man on the bench rolls off with a loud scream. The bullet grazed his ear. He jumps to his feet in amazement and rage and yells:
- Why are you shooting at me?
A tall man approaches with a wide-brimmed hat in his hand, bows and says:
- I'm sorry, sir. I'm Colonel Jay, sir, it seemed to me that you were insulting me, sir, but I see that I was mistaken. Very “hell that didn’t kill you, sir.”
- I insult you - with what? - the visitor bursts out. - I didn't say a single word.
“You were knocking on the bench, sir,” as if you wanted to say that you were a woodpecker,
se", and I - p" belong to d"goy po"ode. I see now that you are just
knocked the ashes out of your "tubka, sir." I beg your pardon, sir, and also that you go and have a glass with me, sir, in order to show that you have no bitterness in your soul against the gentleman who "I apologize to you, sir."
“MONUMENT TO A SWEET CHILDHOOD” by O. Henry
He was old and weak, and the sand in the clock of his life had almost run out. He
walked with unsteady steps along one of the most fashionable streets in Houston.
He left the city twenty years ago, when it was little more than a meager village, and now, tired of wandering around the world and full of a painful desire to look once again at the places where he spent his childhood, he returned and found that a bustling business city had grown on the site of his ancestors' house.
He searched in vain for some familiar object that could remind him of days gone by. Everything has changed. There,
where his father's hut stood, the walls of a slender skyscraper rose; the vacant lot where he played as a child was built up with modern buildings. On both sides there were magnificent lawns, running up to luxurious mansions.
Suddenly, with a cry of joy, he rushed forward with renewed energy. He saw in front of him - untouched by the hand of man and unchangeable by time - an old familiar object around which he had run and played as a child.
He extended his arms and rushed towards him with a deep sigh of contentment.
Later he was found sleeping with a quiet smile on his face on an old garbage heap in the middle of the street - the only monument to his sweet childhood!
Eduard Uspensky “Spring in Prostokvashino”
One day a parcel arrived for Uncle Fyodor in Prostokvashino, and in it was a letter:
“Dear Uncle Fedor! Your beloved Aunt Tamara, a former colonel of the Red Army, is writing to you. It's time for you to take up farming - both for education and for the harvest.
Carrots should be planted at attention. Cabbage - in a line through one.
Pumpkin - at the command “at ease”. Preferably near an old trash heap. The pumpkin will “suck out” the entire trash heap and become huge. The sunflower grows well away from the fence so that the neighbors do not eat it. Tomatoes should be planted leaning against sticks. Cucumbers and garlic require constant fertilization.
I read all this in the charter of the agricultural service.
I bought seeds by the glass at the market and poured everything into one bag. But you'll figure it out on the spot.
Don't get carried away by gigantism. Remember the tragic fate of Comrade Michurin, who died after falling from a cucumber.
All. We kiss you with the whole family.”
Uncle Fyodor was horrified by such a package.
He selected for himself several seeds that he knew well. He planted sunflower seeds in a sunny place. I planted pumpkin seeds near the trash heap. That's all. Soon everything he grew up was delicious, fresh, just like in a textbook.
Marina Druzhinina. CALL, THEY WILL SING FOR YOU!
On Sunday we drank tea with jam and listened to the radio. As always at this time, radio listeners live congratulated their friends, relatives, bosses on their birthday, wedding day or something else significant; They told us how wonderful they were and asked them to sing good songs for these wonderful people.
- Another call! - the announcer declared jubilantly once again. - Hello! We are listening to you! Who will we congratulate?
And then... I couldn’t believe my ears! The voice of my classmate Vladka rang out:
- This is Vladislav Nikolaevich Gusev speaking! Congratulations to Vladimir Petrovich Ruchkin, sixth grade student “B”! He got an A in math! First one this quarter! And actually the first one! Give him the best song!
- Wonderful congratulations! - the announcer admired. - We join these warm words and wish dear Vladimir Petrovich that the mentioned five will not be the last in his life! And now - “Twice two is four”!
The music started playing, and I almost choked on my tea. It's no joke - they sing a song in my honor! After all, Ruchkin is me! And even Vladimir! And Petrovich too! And in general, I’m studying in the sixth “B”! Everything matches! Everything except five. I didn't get any A's. Never. But in my diary there was something exactly the opposite.
- Vovka! Did you really get an A?! “Mom jumped out from the table and rushed to hug and kiss me. - Finally! I dreamed about this so much! Why were you silent? How modest! And Vladik is a true friend! How happy he is for you! He even congratulated me on the radio! Five must be celebrated! I'll bake something delicious! - Mom immediately kneaded the dough and began to make pies, cheerfully singing: “Twice two is four, twice two is four.”
I wanted to shout that Vladik is not a friend, but a bastard! Everything is lying! There were no A's! But the tongue did not turn at all. No matter how hard I tried. Mom was very happy. I never thought that my mother’s joy has such an effect on my tongue!
- Well done, son! - Dad waved the newspaper. - Show me the five!
- They collected our diaries,” I lied. - Maybe they’ll give it away tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow...
- OK! When they hand it out, then we’ll admire it! And let's go to the circus! Now I'm off to get some ice cream for all of us! - Dad rushed off like a whirlwind, and I rushed into the room, to the phone.
Vladik picked up the phone.
- Hello! - giggles. - Did you listen to the radio?
- Have you gone completely crazy? - I hissed. - Parents here have lost their heads because of your stupid jokes! And it’s up to me to unwind! Where can I get them a five?
- How is this where? - Vladik answered seriously. - Tomorrow at school. Come to me right now to do your homework.
Gritting my teeth, I went to Vladik. What else was left for me?..
In general, we spent two whole hours solving examples, problems... And all this instead of my favorite thriller “Cannibal Watermelons”! Nightmare! Well, Vladka, wait!
The next day, in mathematics class, Alevtina Vasilievna asked:
- Who wants to review homework at the board?
Vlad poked me in the side. I groaned and raised my hand.
First time in life.
- Ruchkin? - Alevtina Vasilievna was surprised. - Well, you are welcome!
And then... Then a miracle happened. I solved everything and explained it correctly. And in my diary a proud five turned red! Honestly, I had no idea that getting A’s was so nice! Those who don't believe, let them try...
On Sunday, as always, we drank tea and listened
the program “Call, they will sing for you.” Suddenly the radio started chattering again in Vladka’s voice:
- Congratulations to Vladimir Petrovich Ruchkin from the sixth "B" with an A in Russian! Please give him the best song!
What-o-o-o?! Only the Russian language was still missing for me! I shuddered and looked at my mother with desperate hope - maybe I didn’t hear. But her eyes were shining.
- How clever you are! - Mom exclaimed, smiling happily.
Marina Druzhinina story “Horoscope”
The teacher sighed and opened the magazine.
Well, “take courage now”! Or rather, Ruchkin! Please list the birds that live on the edges of the forest, in open places.
That's the number! I never expected this! Why me? I shouldn't be called today! The horoscope promised “all Sagittarius, and therefore me, incredible luck, unbridled fun and a rapid rise up the career ladder.”
Maybe Maria Nikolaevna will change her mind, but she looked at me expectantly. I had to get up.
But what can I say - I had no idea, because I didn’t study the lessons - I believed the horoscope.
Oatmeal! – Redkin whispered into my back.
Oatmeal! – I repeated mechanically, not trusting Petka too much.
Right! – the teacher was delighted. - There is such a bird! Let's move on!
“Well done Redkin! Correctly suggested! Still, today is my lucky day! The horoscope did not disappoint!” - joyfully flashed through my head, and without any doubt, in one breath, I blurted out after Petka’s saving whisper:
Millet! Semolina! Buckwheat! Pearl barley!
An explosion of laughter drowned out the “barley.” And Maria Nikolaevna shook her head reproachfully:
Ruchkin, you probably really love porridge. But what do birds have to do with it? Sit down! "Two"!
I was literally seething with indignation. I showed
Redkin's fist and began to think about how to take revenge on him. But retribution immediately overtook the villain without my participation.
Redkin, to the board! - Maria Nikolaevna commanded. “It seems you also whispered something to Ruchkin about dumplings and okroshka.” Do you think these are also birds of open places?
No! - Petka grinned. - I was joking.
Prompting incorrectly is mean! This is much worse than not learning a lesson! – the teacher was indignant. - I'll have to talk to your mom. Now name the birds - relatives of the crow.
There was silence. Redkin was clearly not in the know.
Vladik Gusev felt sorry for Petka, and he whispered:
Rook, jackdaw, magpie, jay...
But Redkin, apparently, decided that Vladik was taking revenge on him for his friend, that is, for me, and was giving him the wrong advice. Everyone judges for himself - I read about this in the newspaper... In general, Redkin waved his hand at Vladik: shut up, and announced:
The crow, like any other bird, has a large family. This is mom, dad, grandma - old crow - grandpa...
Here we literally howled with laughter and fell under our desks. Needless to say, the unbridled fun was a success! Even a bad mark didn't spoil the mood!
This is all?! – Maria Nikolaevna asked menacingly.
No, not everything! – Petka did not let up. “The crow also has aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, nephews...
Enough! – the teacher shouted. “Two.” And so that all your relatives come to school tomorrow! Oh, what am I saying!... Parents!
(Martynov Alyosha)
1. Viktor Golyavkin. How I sat under my desk (Volikov Zakhar)
As soon as the teacher turned to the board, I immediately went under the desk. When the teacher notices that I have disappeared, he will probably be terribly surprised.
I wonder what he'll think? He’ll start asking everyone where I’ve gone - it’ll be a laugh! Half the lesson has already passed, and I’m still sitting. “When,” I think, “will he see that I’m not in the class?” And it’s hard to sit under the desk. My back even hurt. Try and sit like that! I coughed - no attention. I can't sit anymore. Moreover, Seryozha keeps poking me in the back with his foot. I couldn't stand it. Didn't make it to the end of the lesson. I get out and say: - Sorry, Pyotr Petrovich...
The teacher asks:
- What's the matter? Do you want to go to the board?
- No, excuse me, I was sitting under my desk...
- So, is it comfortable to sit there, under the desk? You sat very quietly today. This is how it would always be in class.
3.The story “Nakhodka” by M. Zoshchenko
One day Lelya and I took a box of chocolates and put a frog and a spider in it.
Then we wrapped this box in clean paper, tied it with a chic blue ribbon and placed this package on the panel facing our garden. It was as if someone was walking and lost their purchase.
Having placed this package near the cabinet, Lelya and I hid in the bushes of our garden and, choking with laughter, began to wait for what would happen.
And here comes a passerby.
When he sees our package, he, of course, stops, rejoices and even rubs his hands with pleasure. Of course: he found a box of chocolates - this doesn’t happen very often in this world.
With bated breath, Lelya and I watch what will happen next.
The passerby bent down, took the package, quickly untied it and, seeing the beautiful box, became even more happy.
And now the lid is open. And our frog, bored with sitting in the dark, jumps out of the box right onto the hand of a passerby.
He gasps in surprise and throws the box away from him.
Then Lelya and I began to laugh so much that we fell on the grass.
And we laughed so loudly that a passerby turned in our direction and, seeing us behind the fence, immediately understood everything.
In an instant he rushed to the fence, jumped over it in one fell swoop and rushed towards us to teach us a lesson.
Lelya and I set a streak.
We ran screaming through the garden towards the house.
But I tripped over a garden bed and sprawled out on the grass.
And then a passerby tore my ear quite hard.
I screamed loudly. But the passer-by, giving me two more slaps, calmly left the garden.
Our parents came running to the scream and noise.
Holding my reddened ear and sobbing, I went up to my parents and complained to them about what had happened.
My mother wanted to call the janitor so that she and the janitor could catch up with the passerby and arrest him.
And Lelya was about to rush after the janitor. But dad stopped her. And he said to her and mother:
- Don't call the janitor. And there is no need to arrest a passerby. Of course, it’s not the case that he tore Minka’s ears, but if I were a passer-by, I would probably have done the same.
Hearing these words, mom got angry with dad and said to him:
- You are a terrible egoist!
Lelya and I also got angry with dad and didn’t tell him anything. I just rubbed my ear and started crying. And Lelka also whimpered. And then my mother, taking me in her arms, said to my father:
- Instead of standing up for a passerby and bringing children to tears, you would better explain to them what is wrong with what they did. Personally, I don’t see this and regard everything as innocent children’s fun.
And dad couldn’t find what to answer. He just said:
- The children will grow up big and someday they will find out for themselves why this is bad.
4.
BOTTLE
Just now on the street some young guy broke a bottle.
He was carrying something. I don't know. Kerosene or gasoline. Or maybe lemonade. In a word, some kind of soft drink. It's a hot time. I'm thirsty.
So, this guy was walking, gaped and knocked the bottle onto the sidewalk.
And such, you know, dullness. There is no need to kick the fragments off the sidewalk. No! He broke it, damn it, and moved on. And other passers-by, then, walk on these fragments. Very nice.
Then I deliberately sat down on the pipe at the gate to see what would happen next.
I see people walking on the glass. He curses, but walks. And such, you know, dullness. Not a single person is found to perform a public duty.
Well, what's it worth? Well, I would stop for a couple of seconds and shake off the fragments from the sidewalk with the same cap. But no, they walk by.
“No, I think, darlings! We still don’t understand social tasks. Slam on the glass."
And then I see that some guys have stopped.
- Eh, they say, it’s a pity that there are few barefoot people these days. Otherwise, they say, it would be great to run into yourself.
And suddenly a man comes.
A completely simple, proletarian-looking person.
This man stops around this broken bottle. Shakes his cute head. Groaning, he bends down and sweeps the fragments aside with a newspaper.
“I think it’s great! I was grieving in vain. The consciousness of the masses has not yet cooled down.”
And suddenly it comes up to this gray one, common man The policeman scolds him:
- What is this, he says, a chicken head? I ordered you to take away the fragments, and you are throwing them aside? Since you are the janitor of this house, you must rid your area of your excess glass.
The janitor, muttering something under his breath, went into the yard and a minute later appeared again with a broom and a tin shovel. And he started cleaning up.
And for a long time, until they drove me away, I sat on the cabinet and thought about all sorts of nonsense.
And you know, perhaps the most surprising thing in this story is that the policeman ordered the glass to be removed.
I was walking down the street... I was stopped by a beggar, a decrepit old man.
Inflamed, tearful eyes, blue lips, rough rags, unclean wounds... Oh, how hideously poverty has gnawed at this unfortunate creature!
He extended his red, swollen, dirty hand to me... He moaned, he bellowed for help.
I started rummaging through all my pockets... Not a wallet, not a watch, not even a handkerchief... I didn’t take anything with me.
And the beggar waited... and his outstretched hand weakly swayed and trembled.
Lost, embarrassed, I firmly shook this dirty, trembling hand...
- Don't blame me, brother; I have nothing, brother.
The beggar stared at me with his bloodshot eyes; his blue lips grinned - and he, in turn, squeezed my cold fingers.
- Well, brother,” he muttered, “thank you for that.” This is also alms, brother.
I realized that I also received alms from my brother.
12. The story “The Goat” by Tvark Man
We left early in the morning. Fofan and I were put in the back seat and we began to look out the window.
Dad drove carefully, didn’t overtake anyone, and told Fofan and me about the rules of the road. It’s not about how and where to cross the road so as not to be run over. And about how to drive so as not to run over anyone.
“You see, the tram has stopped,” dad said. - And we have to stop to let passengers through. And now that they have passed, we can move on. But this sign says that the road will narrow and instead of three lanes there will only be two. Let's look to the right, to the left, and if there is no one, we'll change lanes.
Fofan and I listened, looked out the window, and I felt my legs and arms moving on their own. As if it was me, and not dad, who was driving.
Pa! - I said. - Will you teach Fofan and me to drive a car?
Dad was silent for a while.
Actually, this is an adult matter, he said. - Once you grow up a little, then you will definitely.
We began to approach the turn.
But this yellow square gives us the right to pass first. - said dad. - Main road. There is no traffic light. Therefore, we show the turn and...
He did not have time to leave completely. There was a roar of an engine on the left and a black “ten” rushed past our car. She swerved back and forth twice, squealed her brakes, blocked our path and stopped. A young guy in a blue uniform jumped out and quickly walked towards us.
Did you break something?! - Mom was scared. -Are you going to be fined now?
“Yellow square,” dad said in confusion. - Main road. I didn't break anything! Maybe he wants to ask something?
Dad lowered the window, and the guy almost ran to the door. He leaned over and I saw that his face was angry. Or no, not even evil. He looked at us as if we were the most important enemies in his life.
What are you doing, you goat!? - he yelled so loudly that Fofan and I flinched. - You drove me into oncoming traffic! Well, goat! Who taught you to drive like that? Who, I ask? They'll fucking put assholes behind the wheel! It’s a pity, I’m not at work today, I would write it for you! What are you staring at?
All four of us looked at him in silence, and he kept yelling and yelling, repeating “goat” every word. Then he spat on the wheel of our car and went to his “ten”. On his back, DPS was written in yellow letters.
The black "ten" squealed its wheels, took off like a rocket and sped away.
We sat in silence for a while longer.
Who is it? - Mom asked. - Why is he so nervous?
Fool Because completely - I answered. - DPS. And he was nervous because he was driving fast and almost crashed into us. He himself is to blame. We were driving correctly.
My brother was also yelled at last week,” Fofan said. - And DPS is a road patrol service.
It’s his own fault and he yelled at us? - Mom said. - Then this is not traffic police. This is HAM.
How is this translated? - I asked.
“No way,” my mother answered. - Boor, he is a boor.
Dad started the car and we drove on.
Got upset? - Mom asked. - No need. You were driving correctly, weren't you?
Yes, dad answered.
“Well, forget it,” said mom. - You never know there are boors in the world. Either in uniform or without uniform. Well, his parents saved money on raising him. So this is their problem. He probably yells at them too.
Yes, dad answered again.
Then he fell silent and didn’t say another word the whole way to the dacha.
13.V. Suslov “SLAPPING THE HEAD”
A sixth-grader stepped on an eighth-grader's foot.
Accidentally.
In the dining room, he went out of line to buy pies - and stepped on it.
And he got a slap on the head.
The sixth grader jumped back to a safe distance and said:
- Big deal!
The sixth grader was upset. And I forgot about the pies. I left the dining room.
I met a fifth grader in the hallway. I gave him a slap on the head and it made him feel better. Because if they give you a slap on the head, but you can’t give it to anyone, then it’s very insulting.
- Strong, right? - the fifth grader frowned. And he stomped down the corridor in the other direction.
I passed by a ninth-grader. I walked past the seventh grader. I met a boy from the fourth grade.
And gave him a slap on the head. For the same reason.
Further, as you might guess, according to ancient proverb“If you have strength, you don’t need intelligence,” the third-grader received a slap on the head. And he also didn’t keep it to himself - he gave it to a second grader.
Why does a second grader need a slap on the head? No need at all. He sniffed and ran to look for the first-grader. Who else? It’s not right to give elders slaps on the head!
I feel sorry for the first grader most of all. His situation is hopeless: he can’t run from school to kindergarten to fight!
The first-grader became thoughtful because of the slap on the head.
His dad met him at home.
Asks:
- Well, what did our first grader get today?
- “Well,” he replies, “he got a slap on the head.” And they didn’t put any marks.
(Krasavin)
Anton Pavlovich ChekhovSUMMER RESIDENTS
A couple of recently married spouses were walking back and forth along the dacha platform. He held her by the waist, and she clung to him, and both were happy. From behind the cloudy fragments the moon looked at them and frowned: she was probably jealous and annoyed at her boring, useless virginity. The still air was thickly saturated with the smell of lilac and bird cherry. Somewhere, on the other side of the rails, a crake was screaming...
- How good, Sasha, how good! - said the wife. - Really, you might think that all this is a dream. Look how cozy and affectionate this forest looks! How sweet are these solid, silent telegraph poles! They, Sasha, bring the landscape to life and say that there, somewhere, there are people... civilization... Don’t you like it when the wind faintly carries the noise of a running train to your ears?
- Yes... However, your hands are so hot! It’s because you’re worried, Varya... What did we have for dinner today?
- Okroshka and chicken... There's enough chicken for both of us. They brought you sardines and balyk from the city.
The moon, as if sniffing tobacco, hid behind a cloud. Human happiness reminded her of her loneliness, her lonely bed behind the forests and valleys...
“The train is coming!” said Varya. - How good!
Three fiery eyes appeared in the distance. The head of the station came out onto the platform. Signal lights flashed here and there on the rails.
“We’ll see off the train and go home,” said Sasha and yawned. “We’re living well with you, Varya, so good that it’s even incredible!”
The dark monster silently crawled up to the platform and stopped. Sleepy faces, hats, shoulders flashed in the dimly lit carriage windows...
- Ah! Oh! - was heard from one of the carriages. - Varya and her husband came out to meet us! Here they are! Varenka!.. Varenka! Oh!
Two girls jumped out of the carriage and hung on Varya’s neck. Behind them appeared a plump, elderly lady and a tall, skinny gentleman with gray sideburns, then two high school students laden with luggage, a governess behind the high school students, and a grandmother behind the governess.
“Here we are, here we are, my friend!” began the gentleman with sideburns, shaking Sasha’s hand. - Tea, I've been waiting for it! Probably scolded my uncle for not going! Kolya, Kostya, Nina, Fifa... children! Kiss cousin Sasha! All to you, the whole brood, and for three or four days. I hope we won't embarrass you? Please, no ceremony.
Seeing his uncle and his family, the couple were horrified. While his uncle was talking and kissing, a picture flashed through Sasha’s imagination: he and his wife were giving their three rooms, pillows, and blankets to the guests; the balyk, sardines and okroshka are eaten in one second, the cousins pick flowers, spill ink, make noise, the aunt spends whole days talking about her illness (tapeworm and pain in the pit of the stomach) and the fact that she was born Baroness von Fintich...
And Sasha already looked at his young wife with hatred and whispered to her:
- They came to you... damn them!
- No, to you! - she answered, pale, also with hatred and malice. “These are not mine, but your relatives!”
And turning to the guests, she said with a friendly smile:
- Welcome!
The moon emerged from behind the cloud again. She seemed to be smiling; She seemed pleased that she had no relatives. And Sasha turned away to hide his angry, desperate face from the guests, and said, giving his voice a joyful, complacent expression: “You are welcome!” You are welcome, dear guests!