Short works by Pryshvin. Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin

Biography life and work of M.M. Prishvina

Lived: 1873-1954

Revolutionary ideas in the life and work of Prishvin

Mikhail Prishvin spent his early childhood in the village, where he observed the worries and needs of the peasants. The writer tells us about studying at the Elets gymnasium, and then at a real school in Tyumen in his autobiographical novel "Kashcheev's Chain".

From this work we learn about how the student Prishvin was captured by the idea of ​​universal happiness. During this time, he translated various revolutionary literature, and also propagated ideas among the workers. After that, Mikhail Prishvin was arrested (1897). Sitting in a Riga prison, in solitary confinement, he made a mental journey to the North Pole to pass the time. The writer was very sorry that they did not give ink and paper, otherwise he would certainly write a diary of this trip.

The life of Mikhail Prishvin in Europe

Prishvin, whose pages of life and work are fraught with a lot of curiosity, after being exiled to continue his studies, he went abroad in 1900. Life in Europe, of course, could not help but influence the formation of his inner world. Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was sensitive to the culture of Western Europe. He admired Goethe, loved Wagner's music, and also saw a fusion of philosophy and poetry in Nietzsche's books. Prishvin graduated from the Faculty of Philosophy in Leipzig (1902). At this time, he completely retired from participation in political struggle, since he realized that he was incapable of it. The revolution frightened Mikhail Mikhailovich, he was a dreamer, not a fighter.

First love of Mikhail Prishvin

At the same time, one of the most important events in the life of the future writer happened. Mikhail Prishvin met a student girl from Russia in Paris. The biography and work of Prishvin reflected the influence of this girl, which we will now tell you about. The Kascheyev Chain tells about love and a break with this student, who refused Prishvin, realizing that he was unable to “penetrate into the soul” of another. Mikhail Mikhailovich had to first learn to love, “become a husband,” and not just admire female beauty. That is, one had to first mature spiritually. It was this girl who largely made Mikhail Prishvin a writer, as he himself admitted, saying that all his poetic experiences come from two sources: love and childhood.

Prishvin's life in the village, marriage

For several years, having returned to his homeland, Mikhail Prishvin has been living in the village, where he works as an agronomist, and is also engaged in scientific work in the field of agriculture. He decided to live like "all good people" live, giving up his hopes for personal happiness. Prishvin married a "simple and illiterate" peasant woman who became his assistant.

The beginning of Prishvin's literary activity

Unexpectedly for himself, at the age of 33, Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin realizes his vocation for literary creativity. After that, he dramatically changes his lifestyle, becomes a correspondent for the newspaper Russkiye Vedomosti, published in St. Petersburg. Here, since 1905, he often publishes notes and essays on peasant life. The fact that the creative path of this writer began with journalism was of great importance for the writer Prishvin: in essays and articles he honed his skills, learned to briefly express thoughts, and also comprehended the art of expressiveness and accuracy of language.

Mikhail Mikhailovich also wrote works of art, stories and stories. But only one story called "Sashok" was published in 1906 in "Rodnik" - a children's magazine. The rest of the manuscripts were returned from the editorial offices: "complex psychological things" were not given to Prishvin. The writer was plagued by failure.

Prishvin's journey to the North

Then Prishvin decided to take a letter of recommendation from the Geographical Society, with which he went to the North (Norway and Karelia, 1907). It has long attracted the writer with its secret, and Mikhail Prishvin has been studying this wonderful world for two years in a row. The life and work of Prishvin at this time were very active. He brought back from his travels records of fairy tales and epics, notebooks with travel notes, as well as numerous photographs. In addition, he read a scientific report, after which Prishvin was elected a member of the Russian Geographical Society, and was also awarded a silver medal.

Two books of essays by Mikhail Prishvin

The essay books "Behind the Magic Kolobok" and "In the Land of Unafraid Birds" were a kind of account of the travels made. The latter seemed to the writer Prishvin not very successful, in his opinion, it was too scientific. Prishvin considered the first book to be his creative principle, which contained essays on the life of taiga peasants and fishermen, as well as on the harsh northern nature. However, this work also resembled a fascinating fairy tale. Its beginning corresponded to this genre: "In a certain kingdom ..." But the fairy tale does not at all obscure the truthful description of the miserable life of the people of the North, their ignorance. The writer, nevertheless, reveals first of all the beauty in these people, speaks of their closeness to nature, human dignity, nobility.

Other travels and works of Prishvin written about these trips

The artist writes books and travels every year. The life and work of Prishvin at this time are closely interconnected. So, after he visited the Kerzhen forests, "Light Lake" was published. The essays "Black Arab" and "Adam and Eve" reflected the impressions of visiting Central Asia. The book "Glorious Tambourines" was published after a trip to the Crimea.

The author himself called the work "Black Arab" "festive". When creating it, Prishvin was not constrained by a specific task from the editorial board, so he was able to turn everyday material into an oriental fairy tale, building his work on the idea of ​​a fantastic transformation of the traveler and the area. The image of the traveler is interesting: he posed as a person who had taken a vow of silence. This book is very musical and picturesque. The readers were delighted with her, and M. Gorky even suggested publishing a three-volume collection of Mikhail Mikhailovich's works in "Knowledge".

Prishvin's fame, rapprochement with modernists

By the beginning of the First World War, Prishvin's name became widely known in literary circles. The work of this writer was highly appreciated by many of his contemporaries, such as I. Bunin, A. Blok, A. Remizov, M. Gorky, Z. Gippius, V. Bryusov. Prishvin became especially close to modernist writers. He found support and participation in their environment, was published in their publications. He called Remizov his teacher. In the modernists, Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin attracted attention to art, creativity, as well as the high exactingness of the word. It is known that Prishvin had an idea for a novel called "The Beginning of the Century", he drew up its plan, some "pieces" and sketches have been preserved in the archive. This idea, unfortunately, was not realized.

Sending Prishvin to the front line as a correspondent

After the outbreak of the First World War, the writer went to the front line as a newspaper correspondent. His illusions that this war could bring the authorities and the people closer together dissipated quickly. Prishvin begins to protest against the many countless sacrifices she has made. War is inhuman - this is the main idea of ​​all his essays and articles.

Prishvin is a member of the Scythian association

The writer, like the main part of the progressive intelligentsia of our country at that time, warmly welcomed the February Revolution. He soon entered the Scythian association, to which writers such as E. Zamyatin, A. Remizov, N. Klyuev, S. Yesenin, A. Bely, V. Bryusov and others who shared the view of the history of the Left Social Revolutionaries belonged. They focused on the Russian countryside, the peasantry, and not on the proletariat, and also tried to "combine" Christianity with socialism.

Life and work of Prishvin in the first years after October

A revolution is an event that has affected the fate of many people, including the author we are interested in. A brief chronicle of the life and work of M. M. Prishvin in the first years after October is as follows.
After the revolution, Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin began to cooperate with the Social Revolutionary print media - the newspapers Rannee Morning, Volya Narod, and Delo Narodu - until they were closed as counter-revolutionary.

In the period from 1918 to 1919, Prishvin worked in Yelets as a teacher of the Russian language, organizer of regional studies. In 1920 he left this city with his family to his homeland. In the Smolensk province, the writer worked as a school director and teacher. He also organized a museum of manor life in the former Baryshnikov estate.

The period from 1922 to 1924 was marked by the following events. Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin moves with his family to Moscow, to the Taldom district. Here he is working on a book called "Shoes", and also begins to write an autobiographical work "Kashcheev's chain", which we have already mentioned. Novels about nature, hunting stories appear.

"Springs of Berendey"

In 1925, the writer moved to Pereyaslavl-Zalessky, engaged in local history work. A book entitled "Berendey's Springs" is published - one of the most famous works, which fully reflected the world of nature in the work of Mikhail Prishvin. The book tells about the people with whom the writer worked and lived. It shows Prishvin's special approach to revealing the themes of nature and man. The author emphasizes the kinship with the whole world of people, saying that all the elements of the natural world entered into man. In many ways, this world determines our occupations, even our appearance. Trees and animals are types of people. Nature in lyrical miniatures is endowed with the characteristics of the human inner world. Without understanding Prishvin's philosophy of nature, it is impossible to deeply read the works written by him. What distinguishes him from other artists of the word is that he connects with this topic all the main issues raised in the books. The essence of human existence is revealed through the image of nature.

1930s in the life and work of Prishvin

In 1931, in the spring, Prishvin went on a trip to the Urals on the instructions of the editorial board of the magazine "Our achievements", in which he worked at that time. And in the fall of the same year - to the Far East, where the life and work of M. Prishvin continued.

The book "My Sketch" appears in 1933 with a foreword by M. Gorky. Essays based on the materials of the trip to the North were written at the same time and called "Fathers and Sons". The story "The Root of Life" (also called "Ginseng") was published in the magazine "Krasnaya Nov" in the same year. In this book, contemporaries saw the poetry of transforming life with the help of creativity, which was consonant in general with the pathos of Soviet literature. However, while most of Prishvin's contemporary writers talked about collective work (collective farms, factories, new buildings), Mikhail Mikhailovich wrote about the organization of a deer reserve. His heroes are Chinese and Russian. The story describes their work and life, their relationship. The main idea is the unity of people of different nationalities.

Prishvin was reproached for deliberately moving away from modern reality, not depicting a historical era in the work (at the beginning of the century, the action of this story takes place). However, something else was important for the writer: to express his own thoughts about creativity. The poem written by him is fanned by the romance of the work of the "blessed", the relationship between different people, as well as nature and man. Ginseng is the source of youth and health, the root of life, but at the same time it is also a spiritual source that helps determine a person's path in life. For the first time, the author combined with his own biography the story of a fictional person who, during the Russian-Japanese war, came to the Far East. Autobiographical and one of the most important motives of the work - the feeling of nagging pain that permeates the hero when remembering his first love, as well as the newfound joy when the lost happiness is in another woman. All this reflects the biography of Mikhail Prishvin, briefly described by us.

We continue our story. In 1934, a number of important events marked his life and work. Prishvin M.M. goes to Gorky to study automobile business, and then goes to the northern forests. The impressions of the nature of these places were reflected in the essays "Berendey's thicket", as well as in the collection for children "The Chipmunk Beast".

In 1939, the writer was awarded the Order of the Badge of Honor, and the next year he married VD Lebedeva and spent the summer in the Moscow region, in the village of Tyazhino. There are works "Forest drops", "Phacelia", as well as a cycle called "Grandfather's felt boot".

The life and work of Mikhail Prishvin during the Second World War

During World War II, in August 1941, the writer Prishvin was evacuated from the capital to the Yaroslavl region, the village of Usolye. In 1942, work continued on the third part of the novel "Kashcheev's Chain". In 1943, Stories about the Leningrad Children were published. In connection with his 70th birthday, the writer was awarded the Order of the Red Banner of Labor.

The chronicle of the life and work of M. M. Prishvin of this period is marked by the following further events. In the summer of 1945 he lived in Pushkin, near Moscow, where the "Pantry of the Sun" was created. The collection "Golden Meadow" appeared in 1948.
In 1952, the writer resumed work on the "Kascheyev chain", the third part.
January 16, 1954 is the date that ends his life and work. M. M. Prishvin died in Moscow.

Estimates of Prishvin's creativity and personality

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin is a unique writer. The life and work of Prishvin aroused controversial assessments among his contemporaries. Bakhtin wrote a lot about him, Prishvin was highly regarded by Bokov, Kazakov, Kozhinov. Tvardovsky and Platonov spoke sharply about the work of Mikhail Mikhailovich. However, the writer believed in the love and understanding of his descendants, and today there are really a lot of Prishvin's readers.

Diary of Mikhail Prishvin

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was sincerely happy when he met understanding in his readers, he often said that he was writing for a reader-friend who is capable of co-creation. In the last years of his life, both in Dudin and in Moscow such admirers of his talent as A. Yashin, V. Shishkov, Vs. Ivanov, K. Fedin. Prishvin saw "his reader" in Paustovsky, the writer closest to the "spirit of creativity." They are related by lyricism, love of nature, as well as keen attention to the artistic word. K. Paustovsky spoke enthusiastically about the diary that M. M. Prishvin kept for half a century. He believed that two or three lines from it would be enough for a whole book, if they were expanded.

Many writers are known to have kept diaries. However, Prishvin considered working on it the main business of his life. It was possible to publish part of the records, from which were born "Forget-me-nots", "The eyes of the earth", "Forest drops", "Phacelia". However, during his lifetime, as well as for a long time after his death, most of the records could not be published, since they were considered an expression of ideologically incorrect, erroneous views. In his diary, the writer was indignant, reflected, recorded the signs of the time, conversations with people. From the records you can learn a lot about the peculiarities of life in our country in the first half of the 20th century.

M. M. Prishvin today

The originality of the work of M. M. Prishvin is now appreciated at its true worth. Today, this author really has a lot of readers. Much has been written about the life and work of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin. The outgoing editions of Mikhail Mikhailovich's books are quickly sold out, he is remembered and loved in his native Yelets, in Tyumen, where he studied, as well as in Karelia, where he traveled a lot, and in Dunino, where the last years of the writer's life passed.

Today, the curriculum will certainly include the works of a writer like Prishvin. Life and creativity (grade 6, school curriculum in literature) is studied in all schools in our country. Although there are not very many hours devoted to this topic. Only a brief biography of M. M. Prishvin is considered. This is enough for children. Perhaps, at a more mature age, there will be a desire to get acquainted in more detail with the life and work of such an interesting author. This article was written just for those who want to know the details of the life and work of Mikhail Mikhailovich, which are not talked about in high school.
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Mikhail Prishvin Stories for Children
about nature and animals. We read for free online.

Why is it that the buds of bird cherry come out in sharp peaks? It seems to me that the bird cherry slept in winter and in a dream, remembering how they broke it, repeated to herself: "Do not forget how people broke me last spring, do not forgive!"

Now in the spring, even a bird in its own way repeats everything, everything reminds her: “Do not forget. Do not forgive! "

That is why, perhaps, waking up from hibernation, the bird cherry got down to business and shot up, and shot millions of angry rushes on people. After yesterday's rain, the peaks turned green.

"Peaks-spades," the cute bird warned people.

But the peaks are white, greener, gradually getting taller and more blunt. Further, we already know from the past how the cherry blossoms will produce buds from them, and fragrant flowers from the buds.

Mikhail Prishvin "Wagtail"

(In shorthand)

Every day we waited for our beloved messenger of spring, the wagtail, and finally she flew in and sat on an oak tree and sat for a long time, and I realized that this was our wagtail, that she would live somewhere here ...

Here is our starling, when it flew in, it dived right into its hollow and began to sing; our wagtail, on arrival, came running to us under the car.

Our young dog Swat began to adjust, how to deceive and grab her.

With a front black tie, in a light gray, perfectly tied dress, lively, mocking, she passed under the very nose of Swat, pretending not to notice him at all ... She knows very well canine nature and is prepared for an attack. She flies off just a few steps.

Then he, aiming at her, freezes again. And the wagtail looks directly at him, sways on her thin springy legs and just doesn't laugh out loud ...

It was even funnier to look at this bird, always cheerful, always efficient, when the snow began to slide from the sandy pit over the river. For some reason, a wagtail was running on the sand near the water itself. He will run through and write a line on the sand with his thin paws. Runs back, and the line, you see, is already under water. Then a new line is written, and so almost continuously all day: water arrives and buries the written. It is difficult to find out what kind of spider bugs our wagtail caught.

Mikhail Prishvin "Crystal Day"

There is an original crystal day in autumn. Here he is now.

Silence! Not a single leaf above moves, and only below, in an inaudible draft, a dry leaf flutters on the cobweb. In this crystal silence, the trees, and old stumps, and dry monsters went into themselves, and they were not, but when I went out into the clearing, they noticed me and came out of their stupor.

Mikhail Prishvin "Captain-Spider"

Even in the evening, under the moonlight, a fog arose between the birches. I wake up early, with the first rays, and I see how they beat to penetrate into the ravine through the fog.

The fog is getting thinner and thinner, brighter and brighter, and now I see: a spider on a birch is hurrying, hurrying and descending from a height into the depths. Then he fixed his web and began to wait for something.

When the sun raised the fog, the wind blew along the ravine, tore off the cobweb, and it, curled up, rushed. On a tiny leaf attached to a web, the spider sat like the captain of his ship, and he probably knew where and why he should fly.

Mikhail Prishvin "Unseen mushrooms"

The north wind is blowing, hands freeze in the air. And the mushrooms are still growing: volnushki, boletus, mushrooms, occasionally you can still come across porcini.

Eh, and the fly agaric got good yesterday. Himself dark red, and pulled down from under the hat down along the leg white pantaloons, and even with folds. Next to him sits a pretty little wave, all matched up, her lips rounded, licking her lips, wet and smart ...

The frost was enough, but it was dripping from the sky. On the water, large droplets become bubbles and float down the river with the escaping mists.

Mikhail Prishvin "The Beginning of Autumn"

Today at dawn one lush birch emerged from the forest into the clearing, as in a crinoline, and the other, timid, thin, dropped leaf by leaf onto a dark tree. Following this, as it dawned more and more, different trees began to appear to me in different ways. This always happens at the beginning of autumn, when after a lush and common summer, a big change begins and the trees all begin to experience leaf fall in different ways.

I looked around me. Here is a hummock, combed by the legs of a black grouse. Previously, it happened that in the hole of such a hummock you certainly find a feather of a black grouse or a capercaillie, and if it is pockmarked, then you know that the female was digging, if the black one is a rooster. Now in the holes of the combed bumps lie not feathers of birds, but fallen yellow leaves. And then here is an old, old russula, huge, like a plate, all red, and the edges turned up from old age, and water was poured into this dish, and a yellow birch leaf was floating in the dish.

Mikhail Prishvin "Parachute"

In such silence, when grasshoppers were singing in their own ears without grasshoppers in the grass, a yellow leaf slowly flew down from a birch, rubbed by tall spruces. He flew off in such silence when the aspen leaf did not move. It seemed that the movement of the leaf attracted everyone's attention, and everyone ate, birches and pines with all the leaves, twigs, needles, and even bushes, even the grass under the bushes marveled and asked: "How could a leaf move in such silence and move?" And, obeying the general request to find out whether the leaf had moved by itself, I went to him and found out. No, the leaf did not move by itself: it was a spider, wanting to descend, weighed it down and made it with its parachute: a small spider fell on this leaf.

Mikhail Prishvin "First frost"

The night passed under a large clear moon, and by morning the first frost fell. Everything was gray, but the puddles did not freeze. When the sun came up and warmed up, the trees and grasses were bathed in such strong dew, branches of fir trees peeked out of the dark forest with such luminous patterns that the diamonds of our entire earth would not have been enough for this decoration.

Particularly beautiful was the queen, the pine, sparkling from top to bottom. Joy jumped in my chest as a young dog.

Mikhail Prishvin "Late Autumn"

Autumn lasts like a narrow path with steep turns. Now frost, then rain, and suddenly snow, like in winter, a white blizzard with a howl, and again the sun, again warm and green. In the distance, at the very end, a birch tree stands with golden leaves: as it froze, it remained, and the wind can no longer rip off the last leaves from it - it ripped everything that could be.

The latest autumn is when the mountain ash wrinkles from frost and becomes, as they say, “sweet”. At this time, the latest autumn so closely converges with the earliest spring, that by yourself you only recognize the difference between an autumn and spring day - in the fall you think: “I will survive this winter and I will be delighted with one more spring”.

Mikhail Prishvin "Living drops"

Yesterday it was a lot of snow. And it melted a little, but yesterday’s big drops froze, and today it’s not cold, but it doesn’t melt either, and the drops hang like living things, shine, and the sky is gray in weight - it’s about to fly ...

I was wrong: the drops on the balcony are alive!

Mikhail Prishvin "In the city"

What is drizzling from above and the abyss in the air - you no longer pay attention to that. Water tremor in electric light, and there are shadows on it: a person walks on the other side, and his shadow is here: the head passes along the water tremors.

During the night, thank God, good snow fell, from the window in the morning darkness, by the light of the lanterns, you can see how the snow is gloriously falling from the shovels of the janitors, which means it is not wet yet.

Yesterday, in the middle of the day, the puddles began to freeze, icy conditions began, and Muscovites began to fall.

Mikhail Prishvin "Life is immortal"

The time has come: the frost has ceased to be afraid of the warm sky covered with heavy gray clouds. In the evening today, I stood over a cold river and understood with my heart that everything in nature was over, that, perhaps, in accordance with the frost, snow would fall from the sky to the ground. The last breath seemed to leave the ground.

Towards evening it grew colder over the river and gradually everything disappeared into darkness. Only the cold river remained, and in the sky there are alder cones, the very ones that remain hanging on bare branches for the whole winter. The frost lasted a long time at dawn.

The streams from the wheels of the car were covered with a transparent crust of ice with oak leaves frozen into it, the bushes by the road turned white, like a blooming cherry orchard. So the frost held on until the sun overcame.

Then he received support and got stronger, and everything on earth became blue, as in heaven.

How fast time flies by. How long ago did I make this gate in the fence, and now the spider tied the upper ends of the lattice with cobwebs in many rows, and frost changed the cobweb sieve into white lace.

Everywhere in the forest, this news: every spider web has become lace. The ants fell asleep, the anthill was frozen, and it was covered with yellow leaves.

For some reason, the last leaves on the birch gather on the top of the head, like a bald person has the last hair. And all the white birch that has flown around stands like a red broom. It happens that these last leaves remain as a sign that those leaves that have fallen are not for nothing that they have fallen off and will rise again in the new spring.

Mikhail Prishvin "My homeland"

(From childhood memories)

My mother got up early, before the sun. Once I got up before the sun too ... Mother treated me to tea with milk. This milk was boiled in an earthen pot and was always covered with a ruddy froth on top, but under this froth it was unusually tasty, and the tea from it became wonderful.

This treat decided my life in a good way: I began to get up before the sun to drink delicious tea with my mother. Little by little I got so used to getting up in the morning that I could no longer sleep through the sunrise.

Then I got up early in the city, and now I always write early, when the whole animal and plant world wakes up and also begins to work in its own way.

And often, often I think: what if we would have risen with the sun for our work! How much health, joy, life and happiness would have come to people!

After tea I went hunting ...

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

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

Fish need clean water - we will protect our reservoirs. In the forests, steppes, mountains, various valuable animals - we will protect our forests, steppes, mountains.

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

Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin was born on January 23 (February 4) 1873, p. Khrushchevo, Eletsk district, Oryol province. Russian writer, author of works about nature, who showed in them a special artistic philosophy of nature, hunting stories, works for children. His diaries, which he kept throughout his life, are of particular value.

Born into a merchant family (his father died when the boy was seven years old). After graduating from a rural school, he entered the Yeletsk classical gymnasium, from where he was expelled (1888) for insolence to the teacher V.V. Rozanov. Having moved to Tyumen to his uncle, a large Siberian industrialist, he graduated from six classes of the Tyumen real school. In 1893 Prishvin entered the Riga Polytechnic (chemical and agronomic department).

During the First World War, Mikhail Prishvin is sent to the front as an orderly and war correspondent.

After the October Revolution, he combined work of local lore with the work of an agronomist and teacher: he taught at the former Elets gymnasium (from which he was expelled as a child), at a second-grade school in the village of Aleksino, Dorogobuzh district (director there), served as a public education instructor. He organized a museum of manor house life in the former estate of Baryshnikov, took part in organizing a museum in the city of Dorogobuzh.

So, the very first book by M. Prishvin "In the Land of Unafraid Birds" made him a famous writer... A new name appeared in Russian literature - Prishvin. But the road to himself was not so close for Mikhail Mikhailovich, he did not immediately find his face, which we immediately imagine when pronouncing the name - Prishvin.

Prishvin's works:

Many of Prishvin's works were included in the golden fund of children's literature, were translated into foreign languages.

Works written by the singer of Russian nature M.M. Prishvin for children: "Pantry of the Sun", "Lisichkin Bread", "In the Land of Grandfather Mazai" and others are distinguished by reliability in the description of nature, love for animals, poetry, deep meaningfulness.
Each of his new books, which appeared many during his travels, reveals the beauty of our country. His works are readily accepted by readers of all ages - sincere, pure and truthful.

The amazing, always unexpected, full of small discoveries, the stories of Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin are familiar to everyone from early childhood. They learned to unravel the secrets of nature using them, learned to be aware of oneself in this ever-changing, immediate world as an integral part of it.

Butterfly hunt

The book of the famous writer of the early XX century Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin for children of primary school age, with numerous illustrations.

The book represents sketches about wild animals and birds of central Europe and Asia. The plots of the stories are not invented, but taken by the author from real observations. The author was able to see and generalize what he saw, conveying it in his works. At the same time, he avoided excessive emotion before what he saw, and tried to convey to the reader the essence of what he saw or heard.

Forest drops

The publication contains selected works by Mikhail Prishvin for children of primary and secondary school age.
"Forest Drop" is a book of selected works of the remarkable Russian writer Mikhail Mikhailovich Prishvin, a sensitive, attentive artist, deeply feeling and knowing nature, a wise and kind person.

Opens the book cycle of stories about nature "Forest drops".Very interesting "Hunting were"- stories about hunting, about animals (especially about man's friend - a dog) and, of course, about amazing people - hunters, "poets at heart".
Along with the stories, the book includes: fairy tale-reality "Pantry of the sun", tale-tale "The Ship Thicket"(in excerpts) and chapters from the fairy-tale novel "Osudareva's Road", telling how the boy Zuek saves himself and saves many animals from drowning on the floating island - the floodplain.

Guys and ducklings

The collection includes the stories of M. Prishvin "Lisichkin bread", "Golden Meadow",
"Birch bark tube", "The Queen of Spades", "Guys and Ducklings" Recommended Reading
in primary school.

Lisichkin bread

The collection includes the classic works of Prishvin from the famous cycles "Zhurka", "Conversation of Birds and Animals", "In the land of grandfather Mazai","Forest master", "Lisichkin bread", "Grandfather's felt boot", in which the great Russian writer appears as an enthusiastic philosopher and wise poet.

For primary school age.

Green noise

The collection "Green Noise" by the famous Russian Soviet writer M.M. Prishvin (1873-1954) includes his most significant works, telling about meetings with interesting people, about the beauty of Russian nature and the fauna of our country.

Grandfather's felt boot

Black and white animation tape based on the story of the same name by Mikhail Prishvin.
"Everything in the world" has an end, everything dies, and only one grandfather's felt boots are eternal. So thinks the young hero of the picture - a village boy.
The cartoon "Grandfather's felt boot" is a light, kind work. The cartoon is based on the story of the same name by Mikhail Prishvin. The cartoon was filmed mentally, soundly, at home, tenderly and reverently. Grandpa does not want to part with felt boots, he constantly repairs and mends them. He even catches fish in them. He cannot live a day without them. They are his life, his salvation from disease.
The grandson understands that everything in this world has its end, and only grandfather's felt boots will live forever. The cartoon is amazing, talented and very professional.

Year of issue: 2010.
Country Russia.
Film director: Oktyabrina Potapova.
Scoring: Yuri Norshtein.
Genre: cartoon.
Duration: 10 min.
The cartoon is presented in the framework of the IX Russian Film Festival "Moscow Premiere".

The black-and-white cartoon "Dedushkin's felt boot" is an adaptation of the story of the same name by Mikhail Prishvin, in which he described the memories of his childhood.

In the center of the action - Grandfather Micah and his boots, which, it seems, are not even going to be demolished. But they were also worn out, and grandfather threw his boots from the high bank into the burdock. And when spring began, the birds of the grandfathers took away boots to their nests. On the warm boots, the birds hatched and grew up, and when it became cold, they flew away in clouds to the warm regions.
In the spring they will return again, and many will find the remains of grandfather's felt boot in the old nests.

In the film by Oktyabrina Potapova "Grandfather's felt boot" sounds song "Along the Mother, along the Volga"... Here the main character - narrator's voiceover, and not anyone, but Yuri Norshtein!
He sings the song. Quiet, sad, heartfelt, sublime. This event could not fail to notice, and Yuri Borisovich was awarded the "Debut" Prize - for acting and vocal skills.

In one of his books, Yuri Borisovich writes: “Art is an instantaneous feeling of the world; at this moment the material sequence of time, diligent orderliness disappears. You seem to remove pieces of time, connecting the incompatible ". "Eternal felt boot" is a universal metaphor.

By the way, the film happened quite unexpectedly. At the age of 60, Francesca, the wife of Norstein, according to the story of Prishvin, did a term paper. Half a century later, these drawings were seen by Oktyabrina. Inspired, she made her film in keeping with the style.

The film participated in the competition program of the Suzdal-2011 festival

"Soyuzmultfilm" arrived in Zhukovsky

On April 13, guests from the famous Soyuzmultfilm studio came to the young admirers of animated films from the Luchik children's film club at the Palace of Culture. The director-animator of the film studio, winner of the animation film festivals Oktyabrina Potapova is visiting the cinema club for the second time. The guests brought about 10 cartoons, to the creation of which they are directly involved. These were both tapes of recent years and the classics of Soyuzmultfilm.
The meeting began with the screening of "Grandfather's felt boot", a 2012 cartoon that all guests worked on. The cartoon was created based on the story of M. Prishvin, and the script for it was written by Yuri Norshtein, he also made storyboards for it and even voiced it. It turned out to be something completely "Norstein" and truly wonderful.
“Grandfather's felt boot has a typical Russian content of a fabulous epic character,” says Vladimir Shevchenko about the cartoon. - “This is a film of mood, which is difficult to describe in words. The moods of winter, spring, autumn - all this is shown through nature, characters. There is very little dialogue between the characters, but the states capture you completely. Perhaps not all children in elementary school will be able to understand him, but they need to be raised by a good example. And this film is quite suitable. "
For example, "Grandfather's felt boot" is made in black and white, reminiscent of Norstein's cartoons. And Yuri Borisovich himself appears here in a capacity that is not quite usual for himself. He is not a director, but a co-writer and reads the voiceover. Stage director Oktyabrina Potapova, previously known for the full-length cartoon "The New Adventures of Babka Ezhka" and the meditative Yakut fairy tale "Once", now turned to Prishvin's work. This story, unknown to children, is about a grandfather who left a good memory of himself not only with his deeds, but also with felt boots ... (Ksenia Loyagina, April 23, 2012)

Mikhail Prishvin "Squirrel Memory"

Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: the squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there in the fall, and immediately ate them - I found the shells. Then she ran off ten meters, dived again, again left a shell in the snow, and after a few meters made the third climb.

What a miracle? You can't think of her smelling the nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. This means that she remembered from the autumn about her nuts and the exact distance between them.

But the most amazing thing is that she could not measure, as we do, centimeters, but directly by eye determined with accuracy, dived and got out. How could one not envy the squirrel memory and ingenuity!

Mikhail Prishvin "Gadgets"

I got a speck in my eye. While I was taking it out, a speck still got into the other eye.

Then I noticed that the wind was carrying sawdust on me and they immediately lay down as a path in the direction of the wind. So, in the direction from which the wind was, someone was working on a dry tree.

I walked into the wind along this white path of sawdust and soon saw that these were the two smallest tits, nuts, gray with black stripes on plump white cheeks, worked their noses on dry wood and hunted for insects in rotten wood. The work was going so briskly that the birds in front of my eyes went deeper and deeper into the tree. I patiently looked at them through binoculars, until finally, from one nut, only the tail remained in sight. Then I quietly walked in from the other side, crept up and covered the place where the tail sticks out with my palm. The bird in the hollow did not make a single movement and immediately seemed to die. I took the palm of my hand, touched the tail with my finger - it lies, does not move; stroked his finger along the back - lying like a dead woman. And the other nut was sitting on a branch two or three paces away and squeaking.

One could guess that she was persuading her friend to lie as quietly as possible. “You,” she said, “lie down and be silent, and I will squeak near him, he will chase after me, I will fly, and then you don’t yawn.”

I did not torture the bird, stepped aside and watched what would happen next. I had to stand for quite a long time, because the loose nut saw me and warned the prisoner: "Better lie down for a while, otherwise he is standing nearby and looking."

So I stood for a very long time, until finally the loose nut squeaked in a special voice, as I guess:

- Get out, there's nothing you can do: worth it.

The tail has disappeared. A head appeared with a black stripe on the cheek. Squeaked:

- Where is he?

- There is, - squeaked another, - see?

- Ah, I see, - the captive squeaked.

And she flew out.

They flew off just a few steps and, probably, managed to whisper to each other:

- Let's see, maybe he left.

We sat down on the top branch. We looked closely.

“It’s worth it,” said one.

“It’s worth it,” said the other.

And they flew away.

Mikhail Prishvin "Bear"

Many people think that going only to the forest, where there are many bears, and so they will pounce and eat you, and the legs and horns will remain from the goat.

This is not true!

Bears, like any animal, walk through the forest with great caution, and, having sensed a man, they run away from him so that not only the whole beast, but you will not even see a flickering tail.

Once in the north, they pointed out to me a place where there were many bears. This place was in the upper reaches of the Koda River, which flows into the Pinega. I didn't want to kill the bear at all, and there was no time to hunt for it: they hunt in winter, but I came to Koda in early spring, when the bears had already left their dens.

I really wanted to catch the bear eating, somewhere in a clearing, or fishing on the river bank, or on vacation. Having a weapon just in case, I tried to walk through the forest as carefully as animals, hiding near warm footprints; more than once it seemed to me that I even smelled of a bear ... But the bear itself, no matter how much I walked, this time I did not manage to meet.

It happened at last, my patience ran out, and the time had come for me to leave.

I headed to the place where I had hidden the boat and food.

Suddenly I saw: a large spruce leg in front of me trembled and swayed.

"Some kind of animal," I thought.

Taking my bags, I got into the boat and swam.

And just opposite the place where I got into the boat, on the other bank, which is very steep and high, in a small hut lived a hunting hunter.

After an hour or two, this hunter rode his boat down the Coda, overtook me and found me in that hut halfway where everyone stopped.

It was he who told me that from his bank he saw a bear, how he swung out of the taiga just opposite the place from which I came to my boat.

It was then that I remembered how, in complete calm, the spruce legs swayed in front of me.

I felt annoyed at myself that I made a noise of the bear. But the hunter also told me that the bear not only escaped my eye, but also laughed at me ... He, it turns out, ran very close to me, hid behind the eversion and from there, standing on its hind legs, watched me: and how I got out of the forest, and got into a boat and swam. And then, when I closed for him, I climbed a tree and watched me for a long time as I descended the Code.

- So long, - said the hunter, - that I got tired of watching and I went to drink tea in the hut.

I was annoyed that the bear laughed at me.

But it is even more annoying when different talkers scare children with forest animals and present them in such a way that they seem to appear only in the forest without weapons - and they will leave only horns and legs from you.

The tree with its upper whorl, like a palm, took away the falling snow, and such a lump grew from this that the top of the birch began to bend. And it happened that during the thaw the snow fell again and stuck to the one who was, and the top branch with the lump bent the whole tree with an arch, until, finally, the top with that huge lump sank into the snow on the ground and this was not fixed until spring. Under this arch all winter passed by animals and people, occasionally on skis. Nearby, proud fir trees looked from above at the bent birch, as people born to command look at their subordinates.

In the spring, the birch returned to those spruces, and if in this especially snowy winter it had not bent, then both in winter and in summer it would have remained among the firs, but since it was bent, now, with the slightest snow, it bent over and in the end certainly every year arch bent over the path.

It is frightening to enter a young forest in a snowy winter; indeed, it is impossible to enter. Where in the summer I walked along a wide path, now bent trees lie across this path, and so low that only a hare can run under them ...

Lisichkin bread

Once I was walking in the forest all day and in the evening I returned home with a rich booty. He took off his heavy bag and began to spread his goods on the table.

What kind of bird is this? - asked Zinochka.

Terenty, I replied.

And he told her about the black grouse: how he lives in the forest, how he mutters in the spring, how he pecks at birch buds, picks berries in the marshes in the fall, he warms himself up from the wind under the snow in winter. He also told her about the hazel grouse, showed her that it was grayish, with a tuft, and whistled like a hazel grouse on a pipe and let her whistle. I also poured a lot of porcini mushrooms on the table, both red and black. I also had in my pocket a bloody bone berry, and blue blueberries, and red lingonberries. I also brought a fragrant lump of pine resin with me, gave the girl a sniff and said that trees are treated with this resin.

Who treats them there? - asked Zinochka.

They themselves are treated, - I answered. - It happens, a hunter will come, he wants to rest, he will stick an ax into a tree and hang a bag on the ax, and he will lie under the tree. Sleep, rest. He takes an ax out of a tree, puts on a bag, and leaves. And from a wound from an ax, this fragrant tar will run from a tree and this wound will tighten.

Also on purpose for Zinochka I brought various wonderful herbs, one leaf, one root, one flower: cuckoo tears, valerian, Peter's cross, hare cabbage. And just under the hare cabbage I had a piece of black bread: it always happens to me, that when I don't take bread to the forest - I'm hungry, but I take it - I forget to eat it and bring it back. And Zinochka, when she saw black bread under the hare cabbage, was stupefied:

Where did the bread come from in the forest?

What's so surprising about that? After all, there is cabbage there!

Hare ...

And bread is a fox. Taste it. I tried it carefully and began to eat:

Good fox bread!

And she ate all my black bread clean. And so it went with us: Zinochka, such a copula, often doesn't even take white bread, but when I bring chanterelle bread from the forest, always eat it all and praise it:

Lisichkin's bread is much better than ours!

Blue shadows

Silence resumed, frosty and light. Yesterday's powder lies on the crust, like a powder with sparkling sparkles. Nast does not collapse anywhere and on the field, in the sun, it holds even better than in the shade. Each bush of the old wormwood, burdock, blade, blade of grass, as in a mirror, looks into this sparkling powder and sees itself blue and beautiful.

Quiet snow

They say about silence: "Quieter than water, below the grass ..." But what can be quieter than falling snow! Yesterday it was snowing all day, and it was as if it had brought silence from heaven ... And every sound only intensified it: the rooster yelled, the crow called, the woodpecker drummed, the jay sang with all its voices, but the silence grew from all this. What silence, what grace.

Transparent ice

It is good to look at that transparent ice, where the frost did not make flowers and did not block the water with them. It can be seen how a stream under this thinnest ice drives a huge herd of bubbles, and drives them out from under the ice into open water, and rushes them with great speed, as if he really needs them somewhere and needs to have time to drive them all into one place.

Zhurka

Once we had it - we caught a young crane and gave him a frog. He swallowed it. Gave another - swallowed. The third, fourth, fifth, and then there were no more frogs at hand.

Clever girl! - said my wife and asked me; - And how many of them can he eat? Ten maybe?

Ten, I say, maybe.

And what if twenty?

Twenty, I say, hardly ...

We clipped the wings of this crane, and he began to follow his wife everywhere. She is milking a cow - and Zhurka is with her, she is in the garden - and Zhurka needs to be there ... His wife is used to him ... and without him she is really bored, without him anywhere. But only if it happens - he is not, he will shout only one: "Fru-fru!", And he runs to her. Such a clever girl!

This is how the crane lives with us, and its clipped wings keep growing and growing.

Once my wife went to fetch water down to the swamp, and Zhurka followed her. A small frog sat by the well and jumped from Zhurka into the swamp. The beetle is behind him, and the water is deep, and you can't reach the frog from the shore. Mah-flap Zhurka's wings and suddenly flew. The wife gasped - and after him. Swing his arms, but he cannot get up. And in tears, and to us: “Oh, oh, what a woe! Ahah!" We all ran to the well. We see - Zhurka is far away, in the middle of our swamp sits.

Fru-frou! I shout.

And all the guys behind me are also shouting:

Fru-frou!

And so clever! As soon as he heard this our "fruit-fruit", now he flapped his wings and flew in. At this point, the wife does not remember herself for joy, she tells the guys to run after the frogs as soon as possible. This year there were a lot of frogs, the guys soon gathered two caps. The guys brought the frogs, began to give and count. Gave five - swallowed, gave ten - swallowed, twenty and thirty - and so, and swallowed forty-three frogs at a time.

Squirrel memory

Today, looking at the tracks of animals and birds in the snow, this is what I read from these tracks: the squirrel made its way through the snow into the moss, took out two nuts hidden there in the fall, and immediately ate them - I found the shells. Then she ran off ten meters, dived again, again left a shell in the snow, and after a few meters made the third climb.

What a miracle? You can't think of her smelling the nut through a thick layer of snow and ice. This means that she remembered from the autumn about her nuts and the exact distance between them.

But the most amazing thing is that she could not measure, as we do, centimeters, but directly by eye determined with accuracy, dived and got out. How could one not envy the squirrel memory and ingenuity!

Forest doctor

We wandered in the forest in the spring and observed the life of hollow birds: woodpeckers, owls. Suddenly, in the direction where we had previously outlined an interesting tree, we heard the sound of a saw. That was, as we were told, the procurement of firewood from deadwood for the glass factory. We were afraid for our tree, hurried to the sound of the saw, but it was too late: our aspen lay, and around its stump there were many empty cones. The woodpecker peeled it all off during the long winter, collected it, carried it on this aspen, laid it between two bitches in his workshop and hammered it. Near the stump, on our cut-off aspen, two boys were only engaged in sawing the forest.

Eh you pranksters! - we said and pointed to the cut aspen. - You are ordered to dry trees, and what have you done?

The woodpecker made holes, - the guys answered. - We looked and, of course, cut it down. It will disappear anyway.

We all began to examine the tree together. It was quite fresh, and only in a small space, no more than a meter in length, did a worm pass through the trunk. The woodpecker apparently listened to the aspen like the doctor: he tapped it out with his beak, understood the emptiness left by the worm, and proceeded to the operation of extracting the worm. And the second time, and the third, and the fourth ... The thin aspen trunk looked like a pipe with valves. Seven holes were made by the "surgeon" and only on the eighth did he capture the worm, pulled out and saved the aspen.

We carved this piece out as a wonderful exhibit for a museum.

You see, - we said to the guys, - the woodpecker is a forest doctor, he saved the aspen, and it would live and live, and you cut it off.

The guys were amazed.

White necklace

In Siberia, near Lake Baikal, I heard from one citizen about a bear and, I confess, I did not believe it. But he assured me that in the old days even in a Siberian magazine it was published under the title: "A man with a bear against wolves."

One watchman lived on the shore of Lake Baikal, caught fish, shot squirrels. And now, as if this watchman sees through the window - a big bear runs straight to the hut, and a pack of wolves is chasing him. That would be the end of the bear. He, this bear, do not be bad, in the hallway, the door closed behind him, and he still leaned on her paw. The old man, realizing this matter, removed the rifle from the wall and said:

- Misha, Misha, hold it!

The wolves climb on the door, and the old man aims the wolf out the window and repeats:

- Misha, Misha, hold it!

So he killed one wolf, and another, and a third, all the while saying:

- Misha, Misha, hold it!

After the third, the flock fled, and the bear remained in the hut for the winter under the protection of the old man. In the spring, when the bears leave their dens, the old man allegedly put a white necklace on this bear and punished all hunters that this bear - with a white necklace - should not be shot: this bear is his friend.

Belyak

Direct wet snow all night in the forest pressed on the twigs, broke off, fell, rustled.

The rustle drove the white hare out of the forest, and he probably realized that by morning the black field would turn white and he, completely white, could lie quietly. And he lay down in a field not far from the forest, and not far from it, also like a hare, lay the skull of a horse, weathered over the summer and whitewashed by the sun's rays.

By dawn the whole field was covered, and the white hare and the white skull disappeared in white immensity.

We were a little late, and by the time they let the hound in, the tracks had already begun to blur.

When Osman began to disassemble the fat, it was still possible to distinguish with difficulty the shape of the paw of the hare from the hare: he walked along the hare. But before Osman had time to straighten the trail, everything completely melted on the white path, and on the black sweat there was no sight or smell.

We gave up on the hunt and began to return home at the edge of the forest.

“Look through binoculars,” I said to my comrade, “that it is whitening there on a black field and is so bright.

“Horse skull, head,” he replied.

I took the binoculars from him and also saw the skull.

- There is something else whitening, - said the comrade, - look at the field.

I looked there, and there, too, like a skull, bright white, lay a hare, and through prismatic binoculars one could even see black eyes on the white. He was in a desperate situation: to lie is to be in full view of everyone, to run is to leave a printed track for the dog on the soft, wet ground. We stopped his hesitation: we raised him, and at the same moment Osman, seeing, with a wild roar set off on the one who saw.

Swamp

I know that very few people sat in the early spring in the swamps, waiting for a black grouse current, and I have few words to at least hint at all the splendor of a bird concert in the swamps before sunrise. I have often noticed that the first note in this concert, far before the very first hint of light, is taken by the curlew. This is a very thin trill, completely different from the well-known whistle. After that, when the white partridges scream, the black grouse and the curlew are chuckling, sometimes near the hut itself, it will start its muttering, there is no time for the curlew, but then, at sunrise, at the most solemn moment, you will certainly pay attention to the new curlew song, very cheerful and similar to dance: this dance is as necessary for meeting the sun as the cry of a crane.

Once I saw from the hut a gray curlew, a female, perched on a hummock amid the black mass of rooster; a male flew to her and, supporting himself in the air with the flaps of his large wings, his feet touched the back of the female and sang his dance song. Here, of course, the whole air trembled from the singing of all the marsh birds, and I remember that the puddle, with complete calm, was all agitated by the multitude of insects that had awakened in it.

The sight of a very long and curved beak of a curlew always transports my imagination to a long past time, when there was no man on earth. And everything in the swamps is so strange, the swamps are little studied, not touched by artists at all, in them you always feel as if a person on earth has not yet begun.

One evening I went out into the swamps to wash the dogs. It hovered very much after the rain before another rain. The dogs, sticking out their tongues, ran and from time to time lay down like pigs with their belly in the swamp puddles. Apparently, the youth had not yet emerged and had not climbed out of the supports into an open place, and in our places, crowded with swamp game, now the dogs could not smell anything and were worried about idleness even from flying crows. Suddenly a large bird appeared, began to scream alarmingly and describe large circles around us. Another curlew flew in and also began to circle around screaming, the third, apparently from another family, crossed the circle of these two, calmed down and disappeared. I needed to get a curlew egg in my collection, and, hoping that the circles of birds would certainly decrease if I approached the nest, and increase if I moved away, I began, as in a game with a blindfold, to wander through the swamp through the sounds. So little by little, when the low sun became huge and red in the warm, abundant marsh vapors, I felt the proximity of the nest: the birds screamed unbearably and rushed so close to me that in the red sun I could clearly see their long, curves, open for constant alarming screaming noses. Finally, both dogs, grasping with their upper instincts, made a stance. I went in the direction of their eyes and noses and saw directly on a yellow dry strip of moss, near a tiny bush, without any devices or cover, lying two large eggs. Telling the dogs to lie down, I happily looked around me, the mosquitoes bit hard, but I got used to them.

How good it was for me in the impregnable swamps and how far away the land was blowing from these large birds with long crooked noses, crossing the disc of the red sun on bent wings!

I was about to bend down to the ground in order to take one of these large beautiful eggs, when I suddenly noticed that in the distance through the swamp, a man was walking right at me. He had neither a gun, nor a dog, or even a stick in his hand, no one had a way anywhere from here, and I did not know such people, so that, like me, they could wander through the swamp with pleasure under a swarm of mosquitoes. It was just as unpleasant for me as if, while combing my hair in front of the mirror and making some special face, I suddenly noticed in the mirror someone else's studying eye. I even moved away from the nest to the side and did not take the egg, so that this man would not frighten me off with his questions, I felt it, dear moment of being. I told the dogs to get up and led them to the hump. There I sat down on a gray stone, so covered with yellow lichens on top, that it was not cold. The birds, as soon as I left, increased their circles, but I could no longer follow them with joy. Anxiety was born in my soul from the approach of a stranger. I could already make out him: an elderly, very thin, walking slowly, watching attentively the flight of birds. It became easier for me when I noticed that he changed direction and went to another little hill, where he sat on a stone, and also petrified. I even felt pleased that there was a man like me sitting there, listening to the evening with reverence. It seemed that without any words we understood each other perfectly, and there were no words for this. I watched with redoubled attention as the birds crossed the red disc of the sun; strangely arranged at the same time my thoughts about the timing of the earth and about such a short history of mankind; how, really, everything soon passed.

The sun went down. I looked back at my friend, but he was gone. The birds calmed down, apparently sat on their nests. Then, ordering the dogs to stealthily walk back, I began to approach the nest with inaudible steps: would I be able, I thought, to see interesting birds close up. From the bush, I knew exactly where the nest was, and I was very surprised how close the birds were letting me in. Finally, I got close to the bush itself and froze with surprise: behind the bush everything was empty. I touched the moss with my palm: it was still warm from the warm eggs lying on it.

I just looked at the eggs, and the birds, fearing the human eye, hastened to hide them away.

Topmelting

A golden net of sunbeams trembles on the water. Dark blue dragonflies in horsetail reeds and herringbones. And each dragonfly has its own horsetail tree or reed: it will fly off and will certainly return to it.

Crazy crows brought out their chicks and now sit and rest.

The leaf, the smallest one, went down to the river on a cobweb and is spinning, spinning.

So I go quietly down the river in my boat, and my boat is a little heavier than this leaf, folded of fifty-two sticks and covered with canvas. There is only one oar to it - a long stick, and at the ends on a spatula. You dip each spatula alternately from one side and the other. Such a light boat that no effort is needed: he touched the water with a spatula, and the boat floats, and floats so silently that the fish are not at all afraid.

What, what only you will not see when you quietly ride on such a boat along the river!

Here a rook, flying over the river, dropped into the water, and this lime-white drop, hitting the water, immediately attracted the attention of small high-melting fish. In an instant, a real bazaar from the upper melts gathered around like a drop of grass. Noticing this gathering, a large predator - a fish-scraper - swam up and grabbed the water with its tail with such force that the stunned upper melts turned upside down. They would have come to life in a minute, but the Shellesper is not some fool, he knows that it does not happen so often that a rook will drip and so many fools will gather around one drop: grab one, grab another, - he ate a lot, and which ones managed to get out , henceforth they will live like scientists, and if something good drops from above, they will look both ways, something bad would not come to them from below.

Talking rook

I will tell you an incident that happened to me in a hungry year. A yellow-haired young rook got into the habit of flying on my windowsill. Apparently there was an orphan. And at that time I had a whole bag of buckwheat groats. I also ate buckwheat porridge all the time. Here, it happened, a rook would fly in, I would sprinkle it with cereals and ask;

Do you want some porridge, you fool?

Will bite and fly away. And so every day, the whole month. I want to achieve that to my question: "Do you want some porridge, you fool?", He would say: "I want."

And he only opens his yellow nose and shows a red tongue.

Well, okay, - I got angry and abandoned my studies.

By the fall, trouble happened to me. I got into the chest for cereals, and there was nothing there. Here's how the thieves robbed: half a cucumber was on a plate, and that one was taken away. I went to bed hungry. Spun all night. In the morning I looked in the mirror, my face turned green.

"Knock, knock!" - someone through the window.

On the windowsill, a rook hammers into the glass.

"Here comes the meat!" - a thought came to me.

I open the window - and grab it! And he jumped from me to the tree. I'm out the window after him to the bitch. He's taller. I'm climbing. He is higher and to the very top. I can't go there; very swinging. He, the rogue, looks at me from above and says:

Ho-che, porch-ki, do-rush-ka?

Hedgehog

Once I was walking along the bank of our stream and noticed a hedgehog under a bush. He also noticed me, curled up and tapped: knock-knock-knock. It was very much as if a car was going in the distance. I touched him with the tip of my boot - he snorted terribly and shoved his needles into the boot.

Oh, you are so with me! - I said and with the tip of my boot pushed him into the stream.

Instantly the hedgehog turned in the water and swam to the shore like a small pig, only instead of stubble there were needles on its back. I took my wand, rolled the hedgehog into my hat and carried it home.

I had a lot of mice. I heard that the hedgehog catches them, and decided: let him live with me and catch mice.

So I put this prickly lump in the middle of the floor and sat down to write, while out of the corner of my eye I kept looking at the hedgehog. He did not lie motionless for long: as soon as I was quiet at the table, the hedgehog turned around, looked around, tried to go there, here, finally chose a place under the bed for himself, and there he was completely quiet.

When it got dark, I lit the lamp, and - hello! - the hedgehog ran out from under the bed. He, of course, thought to the lamp that it was the moon that rose in the forest: with the moon, hedgehogs love to run through forest glades.

And so he started to run around the room, pretending that it was a forest clearing.

I picked up the pipe, lit a cigarette and put a cloud near the moon. It became just like in the forest: both the moon and the cloud, and my legs were like tree trunks and, probably, the hedgehog really liked: he ducked between them, sniffing and scratching the heels of my boots with needles.

After reading the newspaper, I dropped it on the floor, went to bed and fell asleep.

I always sleep very lightly. I hear some rustling in my room. He struck a match, lit a candle and just noticed how the hedgehog flashed under the bed. And the newspaper was no longer lying near the table, but in the middle of the room. So I left the candle burning and did not sleep myself, thinking:

“Why did the hedgehog need the newspaper?” Soon my lodger ran out from under the bed - and straight to the newspaper; turned around beside it, made a noise, made a noise, finally, managed: somehow put a corner of the newspaper on the thorns and dragged it, huge, into injection.

Then I understood him: the newspaper was like dry leaves in the forest, he dragged it for himself for the nest. And it turned out to be true: soon the hedgehog turned into a newspaper and made himself a real nest out of it. Having finished this important matter, he left his dwelling and stopped opposite the bed, looking at the candle-moon.

I let the clouds go and ask:

What else do you want? The hedgehog was not scared.

Do you want to drink?

I wake up. The hedgehog does not run.

I took the plate, put it on the floor, brought a bucket of water, and then pour water into the plate, then pour it back into the bucket, and I make so much noise as if it was a trickle splashing.

Well go, go. - I say. - You see, I arranged the moon for you, and let the clouds go, and here's the water for you ...

I look: as if I moved forward. And I also moved my lake a little towards it. He will move, and I will, and so we agreed.

Drink, - I say finally. He lapped it. And I ran my hand so lightly along the thorns, as if stroking, and I am repeating everything:

You are a good fellow, good! The hedgehog got drunk, I say:

Let's sleep. He lay down and blew out the candle.

I don’t know how much I slept, I hear: again I have work in my room.

I light a candle, and what do you think? The hedgehog runs across the room, and he has an apple on the thorns. He ran into the nest, folded it there and ran after another into the corner, and in the corner there was a sack of apples and fell over. Here the hedgehog ran up, curled up near the apples, twitched and again runs, dragging another apple into the nest on the thorns.

So a hedgehog got a job with me. And now, like drinking tea, I will certainly have it on my table and then pour milk into his saucer - he will drink it, then I will give buns - he will eat it.

Golden meadow

When dandelions ripen, my brother and I had constant fun with them. Sometimes we go somewhere on our fishing - it is ahead, I am in the heel.

Seryozha! - I will call him in a businesslike manner. He will look back, and I will poke a dandelion right in his face. For this, he begins to watch for me and, too, as you gape, fuknet. And so we picked these uninteresting flowers just for fun. But once I managed to make a discovery.

We lived in a village, in front of our window we had a meadow, all golden with a multitude of blooming dandelions. It was very beautiful. Everyone said: Very beautiful! The meadow is golden.

Once I got up early to fish and noticed that the meadow was not golden, but green. When I returned home about noon, the meadow was again all golden. I began to observe. By evening, the meadow turned green again. Then I went and looked for a dandelion, and it turned out that he squeezed his petals, as if your fingers on the side of your palm were yellow and, clenching into a fist, we would close the yellow. In the morning, when the sun rose, I saw the dandelions open their palms, and this made the meadow golden again.

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

Blue bast shoe

Highways with separate paths for cars, trucks, carts and pedestrians lead through our large forest. So far, for this highway, only the forest has been cut down by a corridor. It is good to look along the clearing: two green walls of the forest and the sky at the end. When the forest was cut down, large trees were taken away somewhere, while small brushwood - rookery - was collected in huge heaps. They also wanted to take away the rookery to heat the factory, but they did not manage, and the heaps throughout the wide felling remained to winter.

In the fall, hunters complained that the hares had disappeared somewhere, and some associated this disappearance of the hares with the felling of the forest: they chopped, knocked, hummed and scared away. When the powder swooped down and in the footsteps it was possible to unravel all the hare tricks, the pathfinder Rodionich came and said:

- The whole blue bast shoe lies under the heaps of Rookery.

Rodionich, unlike all hunters, called the hare not a "slash", but always "a blue bast shoe"; There is nothing to be surprised at: after all, a hare is no more like a devil than a bast shoe, and if they say that there are no blue bast shoes in the world, then I will say that there are no slashes either.

The rumor about hares under the piles instantly ran all over our town, and on the day off the hunters led by Rodionich began to flock to me.

Early in the morning, at dawn, we went out hunting without dogs: Rodionich was such an expert that he could catch a hare on a hunter better than any hound. As soon as it became visible enough to distinguish the fox's footprints from those of the hare's, we took the hare's footprint, followed it, and, of course, it led us to one heap of rookery, as high as our wooden house with a mezzanine. A hare was supposed to lie under this heap, and we, having prepared our guns, stood all around.

- Come on, - we said to Rodionich.

- Get out, blue bast shoe! - he shouted and thrust a long stick under the heap.

The hare did not jump out. Rodionich was taken aback. And, having thought, with a very serious face, looking at every little thing in the snow, he walked around the whole pile and again walked around in a large circle: there was no exit trail anywhere.

- Here he is, - said Rodionitch confidently. - Get in place, guys, he's here. Ready?

- Let's! We shouted.

- Get out, blue bast shoe! - Rodionich shouted and thrice stabbed under the rookery with such a long stick that the end of it on the other side almost knocked one young hunter off his feet.

And now - no, the hare did not jump out!

Such an embarrassment with our oldest tracker has never happened in my life: even in his face he seemed to have fallen a little. In our country, the fuss started, everyone began to guess about something in his own way, poke his nose into everything, walk back and forth in the snow and so, rubbing all traces, take away every opportunity to unravel the trick of the clever hare.

And now, I see, Rodionitch suddenly beamed, sat down, satisfied, on a stump at a distance from the hunters, rolls up a cigarette and blinks, then blinks at me and beckons to him. Having realized the matter, imperceptibly for everyone I went up to Rodionich, and he showed me upstairs, to the very top of a high heap of rookery covered with snow.

- Look, - he whispers, - some blue bast plays with us.

Not immediately on the white snow I saw two black dots - the eyes of a hare and two more small dots - the black tips of long white ears. This head was sticking out from under the rookery and turned in different directions after the hunters: where they are, there the head is.

As soon as I raised my gun, the life of a clever hare would have ended in an instant. But I felt sorry: you never know them, stupid, lying under the heaps! ..

Rodionich understood me without words. He crumpled a dense lump out of the snow for himself, waited for the hunters to huddle on the other side of the heap, and, having noticed well, with this lump let him hit the hare.

I never thought that our ordinary white hare, if he suddenly stood on a heap, and even jumped up two arshins, and appeared against the sky, that our hare might seem like a giant on a huge rock!

What happened to the hunters? The hare fell straight to them from the sky. In an instant, everyone grabbed their guns - it was very easy to kill. But each hunter wanted to kill before the other, and each, of course, had enough, not aiming at all, and the lively hare set off into the bushes.

- Here's a blue bast! - Rodionich said after him with admiration.

The hunters once again managed to hit the bushes.

- Killed! - shouted one, young, hot.

But suddenly, as if in response to "killed," a tail flickered in the distant bushes; hunters for some reason always call this tail a flower.

The blue bast shoe to the hunters from the distant bushes only waved its "flower".