An excerpt from a work of fiction for a reading competition. Texts of prose works of art for a reading competition

Chingiz Aitmatov. "Mother Field" The scene of a fleeting meeting between mother and son near the train.

The weather was, like yesterday, windy and cold. It is not for nothing that the station gorge is called the caravanserai of the winds. Suddenly the clouds cleared and the sun came out. “Oh,” I thought, “if only my son would suddenly shine like the sun from behind the clouds, if only he could appear before our eyes at least once...”
And then the sound of a train was heard in the distance. He was coming from the east. The ground shook underfoot, the rails began to hum.

Meanwhile, a man came running with red and yellow flags in his hands and shouted in his ear:
- Will not stop! Will not stop! Away! Get out of the way! - And he began to push us away.
At that moment a cry was heard nearby:
- Mom-ah! Alima-a-an!
He! Maselbek! Oh, my God, my God! He rushed past us very close. He leaned out of the carriage with his whole body, holding the door with one hand, and with the other he waved his hat at us and shouted, saying goodbye. I just remember screaming: “Maselbek!” And in that short moment I saw him accurately and clearly: the wind tousled his hair, the skirts of his overcoat beat like wings, and on his face and in his eyes - joy, and grief, and regret, and farewell! And, without taking my eyes off him, I ran after him. The last carriage of the train rustled past, and I was still running along the sleepers, then fell. Oh, how I moaned and screamed! My son was leaving for the battlefield, and I said goodbye to him, hugging the cold iron rail. The sound of the wheels went further and further, and then it died down. And now sometimes it still seems to me as if this train is rushing through my head and the wheels are pounding in my ears for a long time. Aliman ran up all in tears, sank down next to me, wants to lift me but can’t, she’s choking, her hands are shaking. Then a Russian woman, a switchman, arrived in time. And also: “Mom! Mom!” - hugs, cries. The two of them took me to the side of the road, and as we walked to the station, Aliman gave me a soldier’s hat.
“Take it, mom,” she said. - Maselbek left.
It turns out that he threw his hat to me when I was running behind the carriage. I was driving home with this hat in my hands; sitting in the chaise, she pressed her tightly to her chest. It still hangs on the wall. An ordinary soldier's gray earflaps with an asterisk on the forehead. Sometimes I take it in my hands, bury my face and smell my son’s smell.

"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (4)"

The prose poem “Old Woman” is read by Magomirzaev Magomirza

I walked across a wide field, alone.

And suddenly I thought I felt light, cautious steps behind my back... Someone was following my trail.

I looked around and saw a small, hunched old woman, all wrapped in gray rags. The old woman's face alone was visible from under them: a yellow, wrinkled, pointed-nosed, toothless face.

I approached her... She stopped.

- Who are you? What do you need? Are you poor? Are you waiting for alms?

The old woman did not answer. I leaned towards her and noticed that both her eyes were covered with a translucent, whitish membrane, or hymen, such as is found in other birds: they protect their eyes with it from too bright light.

But the old woman’s hymen did not move and did not open her pupils... from which I concluded that she was blind.

- Do you want alms? – I repeated my question. - Why are you following me? “But the old woman still did not answer, but only shrank a little.

I turned away from her and went my way.

And now again I hear behind me the same light, measured, as if creeping steps.

“This woman again! – I thought. - Why did she pester me? “But I immediately added mentally: “She probably blindly lost her way, and is now following my steps by ear, so that together with me she can go out to a residential area.” Yes Yes; This is true".

But a strange uneasiness gradually took over my thoughts: it began to seem to me that the old woman was not only following me, but that she was guiding me, that she was pushing me now to the right, now to the left, and that I was involuntarily obeying her.

However, I continue to walk... But ahead, on my very road, something turns black and widens... some kind of hole...

“Grave! – flashed in my head. “That’s where she’s pushing me!”

I turn sharply back... The old woman is in front of me again... but she sees! She looks at me with large, angry, ominous eyes... the eyes of a bird of prey... I move towards her face, towards her eyes... Again the same dull hymen, the same blind and stupid appearance.

"Oh! – I think... – this old woman is my destiny. That fate from which a person cannot escape!”

“Don’t leave! don't leave! What kind of madness is this?... We have to try.” And I rush to the side, in a different direction.

I walk quickly... But the light steps still rustle behind me, close, close... And the pit darkens again ahead.

I again turn in the other direction... And again the same rustling from behind and the same menacing spot in front.

And wherever I rush, like a hare on the run... everything is the same, the same!

“Stop! - I think. - I’ll deceive her! I’m not going anywhere!” – and I instantly sit down on the ground.

The old woman is standing behind me, two steps away from me. I can't hear her, but I feel that she is here.

And suddenly I see: that spot that was black in the distance is floating, crawling towards me!

God! I look back... The old woman looks straight at me - and her toothless mouth is twisted into a grin...

- You will not leave!

View document contents
"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (5)"

Prose poem "Azure Sky"

Azure Kingdom

O azure kingdom! O kingdom of azure, light, youth and happiness! I saw you... in a dream.

There were several of us on a beautiful, dismantled boat. A white sail rose like a swan's chest under the frisky pennants.

I did not know who my comrades were; but I felt with all my being that they were just as young, cheerful and happy as I was!

Yes, I didn’t even notice them. I saw all around me one boundless azure sea, all covered with small ripples of golden scales, and above my head the same boundless, the same azure sky - and across it, triumphant and as if laughing, the gentle sun rolled.

And from time to time, loud and joyful laughter rose between us, like the laughter of the gods!

Otherwise, suddenly words and poems would fly from someone’s lips, filled with wondrous beauty and inspired power... It seemed as if the very sky was sounding in response to them - and all around the sea trembled sympathetically... And there again a blissful silence fell.

Our fast boat sailed gently through the soft waves. She was not moved by the wind; it was ruled by our own playing hearts. Where we wanted, she rushed there, obediently, as if alive.

We came across islands, magical, translucent islands with shimmers of precious stones, yachts and emeralds. Delightful incense drifted from the rounded banks; some of these islands showered us with a shower of white roses and lilies of the valley; from others, iridescent long-winged birds suddenly rose up.

Birds circled above us, lilies of the valley and roses melted into the pearly foam that slid along the smooth sides of our boat.

Together with flowers and birds, sweet, sweet sounds flew in... Women's voices seemed to be in them... And everything around: the sky, the sea, the fluttering of the sail in the heights, the murmur of the stream behind the stern - everything spoke of love, of blissful love!

And the one whom each of us loved - she was here... invisible and close. Another moment - and then her eyes will shine, her smile will bloom... Her hand will take your hand - and take you with her to an unfading paradise!

O azure kingdom! I saw you... in a dream.

View document contents
"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (6)"

Oleg Koshevoy about his mother (excerpt from the novel "Young Guard").

"... Mom, mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became
to be aware of oneself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered in tan, and it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, only a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher, your hands, - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins.
Yes, from the very moment I became conscious of myself until the last
minutes when, exhausted, you quietly laid your head on my chest for the last time, seeing me off on the difficult path of life, I always remember your hands at work. I remember how they scurried around in soapy foam, washing my sheets, when these sheets were still so small that they looked like diapers, and I remember how you, in a sheepskin coat, in winter, carried buckets on a yoke, placing a small mittened hand on the yoke in front , she herself is so small and fluffy, like a mitten. I see your fingers with slightly thickened joints on the primer, and I repeat
you: “ba-a-ba, ba-ba.” I see how with your strong hand you bring the sickle under the belly, broken by the grain of the other hand, right on the sickle, I see the elusive sparkle of the sickle and then this instant smooth, such a feminine movement of the hands and the sickle, throwing back the ears in the bunch so as not to break the compressed stems.
I remember your hands, unbending, red, turning blue from the icy water in the ice hole, where you rinsed clothes when we lived alone - it seemed completely alone in the world - and I remember how imperceptibly your hands could remove a splinter from your son’s finger and how they instantly threaded a needle when you sewed and sang - sang only for yourself and for me. Because there is nothing in the world that your hands cannot do, that they cannot do, that they would abhor! I saw how they kneaded clay with cow dung to coat the hut, and I saw your hand peeking out of the silk, with a ring on your finger, when you raised a glass of red Moldavian wine. And with what submissive tenderness your full and white hand above the elbow wrapped itself around your stepfather’s neck when he, playing with you, picked you up in his arms - the stepfather whom you taught to love me and whom I honored as my own, for one thing alone, that you loved him.
But most of all, I remembered forever how gently they stroked, your hands, slightly rough and so warm and cool, how they stroked my hair, and neck, and chest, when I lay half-conscious in bed. And, whenever I opened my eyes, you were always next to me, and the night light was burning in the room, and you looked at me with your sunken eyes, as if from the darkness, yourself all quiet and bright, as if in vestments. I kiss your clean, holy hands!
You sent your sons off to war - if not you, then someone else, just like
you, - you will never wait for others, and if this cup passed you, it did not pass another, the same as you. But if even in the days of war people have a piece of bread and there are clothes on their bodies, and if there are stacks of stacks in the field, and trains are running along the rails, and cherries are blooming in the garden, and a flame is raging in the blast furnace, and someone’s invisible force raises up a warrior from the ground or from the bed when he was sick or wounded - all this was done by the hands of my mother - mine, and his, and his.
Look around you too, young man, my friend, look around like I did and tell me who you are
I have offended you more in life than my mother - is it not from me, not from you, not from him, is it not from our failures, mistakes, and is it not from our grief that our mothers turn gray? But the time will come when all this will turn into a painful reproach to the heart at the mother’s grave.
Mom, mom!.. Forgive me, because you are alone, only you in the world can forgive, put your hands on your head, like in childhood, and forgive...”

View document contents
"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (7)"

A.P. Chekhov. "Gull". Monologue of Nina Zarechnaya (final scene of farewell to Treplev)

I'm so tired... I wish I could rest... I could rest!
I am a seagull... No, that's not it. I'm an actress. And he is here... He didn’t believe in the theater, he kept laughing at my dreams, and little by little I also stopped believing and lost heart... And then the worries of love, jealousy, constant fear for the little one... I became petty, insignificant, I played senselessly... I didn’t know what to do with my hands, I didn’t know how to stand on stage, I didn’t have control of my voice. You don't understand this state when you feel like you're playing terribly. I am a seagull.
No, that's not it... Remember when you shot a seagull? A man came by chance, saw him and, having nothing better to do, killed him... The plot for a short story...
What am I talking about?.. I'm talking about the stage. Now I’m not like that... I’m already a real actress, I play with pleasure, with delight, I get drunk on stage and feel beautiful. And now, while I live here, I keep walking, I keep walking and I think, I think and I feel how my spiritual strength is growing every day... I now know, I understand. Kostya, that in our business - it doesn’t matter whether we play on stage or write - the main thing is not fame, not brilliance, not what I dreamed of, but the ability to endure. Know how to bear your cross and believe. I believe, and it doesn’t hurt me so much, and when I think about my calling, I’m not afraid of life.
No, no... Don't see him off, I'll get there myself... My horses are close... So she brought him with her? Well, whatever. When you see Trigorin, don’t say anything to him... I love him. I love him even more than before... I love him, I love him passionately, I love him desperately!
It was good before, Kostya! Remember? What a clear, warm, joyful, pure life, what feelings - feelings similar to delicate, graceful flowers... "People, lions, eagles and partridges, antlered deer, geese, spiders, silent fish that lived in the water, starfish and those who could not be seen with the eye - in a word, all lives, all lives, all lives, having completed a sad circle, died out. For thousands of centuries, the earth has not carried a single living creature, and this poor moon lights its lantern in vain "The cranes no longer wake up screaming in the meadow, and cockchafers are no longer heard in the linden groves..."
I will go. Farewell. When I become a big actress, come and see me.
Do you promise? And now... It's too late. I can barely stand on my feet...

View document contents
"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document (8)"

BAD CUSTOM. Zoshchenko.

In February, my brothers, I fell ill.

I went to the city hospital. And here I am, you know, in the city hospital, receiving treatment and resting my soul. And all around is peace and quiet and God's grace. Everything around is clean and orderly, it’s even awkward to lie down. If you want to spit, use a spittoon. If you want to sit down, there is a chair, if you want to blow your nose, blow your nose into your hand, but if you blow it into the sheet, oh my God, they don’t allow you to blow it into the sheet. There is no such order, they say.

Well, you resign yourself.

And you can’t help but come to terms with it. There is such care, such affection, that it couldn’t be better. Just imagine, some lousy person is lying down, and they drag him lunch, and make his bed, and put thermometers under his armpits, and push enemas with his own hands, and even inquire about his health.

And who is interested? Important, progressive people - doctors, doctors, nurses and, again, paramedic Ivan Ivanovich.

And I felt such gratitude towards all this staff that I decided to offer financial gratitude.

I don’t think you can give it to everyone - there won’t be enough giblets. I'll give it to one, I think. And to whom - he began to take a closer look.

And I see: there is no one else to give, except to the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich. The man, I see, is large and respectable and tries harder than anyone else and even goes out of his way.

Okay, I think I'll give it to him. And he began to think about how to stick it to him, so as not to offend his dignity and so as not to get punched in the face for it.

The opportunity soon presented itself.

The paramedic approaches my bed. Says hello.

Hello, he says, how are you? Was there a chair?

Hey, I think it took the bait.

Why, I say, there was a chair, but one of the patients took it away. And if you want to sit down, sit down with your feet on the bed. Let's talk.

The paramedic sat down on the bed and sat.

Well,” I tell him, “what do they write about, are the earnings high?”

The earnings, he says, are small, but which intelligent patients, even at the point of death, certainly strive to put into their hands.

If you please, I say, although I’m not dying, I don’t refuse to give. And I’ve even been dreaming about this for a long time.

I take out the money and give it. And he kindly accepted and curtsied with his hand.

And the next day it all started.

I was lying very calmly and well, and no one had disturbed me until then, but now the paramedic Ivan Ivanovich seemed stunned by my material gratitude. During the day he will come to my bed ten or fifteen times. Either, you know, he’ll straighten the pads, or he’ll drag him into the bath. He tortured me with thermometers alone. Previously, a thermometer or two would be set a day in advance - that’s all. And now fifteen times. Previously, the bath was cool and I liked it, but now it’s too much hot water to fill up - even though you’re on guard.

I have already done this and that way - no way. I still shove money at him, the scoundrel, just leave him alone, do me a favor, he gets even more furious and tries.

A week has passed - I see I can’t do it anymore.

I was exhausted, lost fifteen pounds, lost weight and lost my appetite.

And the paramedic is still trying.

And since he, a tramp, almost even boiled me in boiling water. By God. The scoundrel gave me such a bath - the callus on my foot burst and the skin came off.

I tell him:

What, I say, you bastard, are you boiling people in boiling water? There will be no more material gratitude for you.

And he says:

It won't - it won't be necessary. Die, he says, without the help of scientists.

But now everything is going as before again: the thermometers are set once, the bath is cool again, and no one bothers me anymore.

It’s not for nothing that the fight against tipping is happening. Oh, brothers, not in vain!

View document contents
"Microsoft Word 97 - 2003 Document"

I SEE YOU PEOPLE! (Nodar Dumbadze)

- Hello, Bezhana! Yes, it’s me, Sosoya... I haven’t been with you for a long time, my Bezhana! Excuse me!.. Now I’ll put everything in order here: I’ll clear the grass, straighten the cross, repaint the bench... Look, the rose has already faded... Yes, quite a bit of time has passed... And how much news I have for you, Bezhana! I don't know where to start! Wait a little, I’ll pull out this weed and tell you everything in order...

Well, my dear Bezhana: the war is over! Our village is unrecognizable now! The guys have returned from the front, Bezhana! Gerasim's son returned, Nina's son returned, Minin Evgeniy returned, and Nodar's father returned, and Otia's father. True, he is missing one leg, but what does that matter? Just think, a leg!.. But our Kukuri, Lukain Kukuri, did not return. Mashiko's son Malkhaz also did not return... Many did not return, Bezhana, and yet we have a holiday in the village! Salt and corn appeared... After you, ten weddings took place, and at each I was among the guests of honor and drank great! Do you remember Giorgi Tsertsvadze? Yes, yes, the father of eleven children! So, George also returned, and his wife Taliko gave birth to a twelfth boy, Shukria. That was some fun, Bejana! Taliko was in a tree picking plums when she went into labor! Do you hear, Bejana? I almost died on a tree! I still managed to get downstairs! The child was named Shukriya, but I call him Slivovich. Great, isn't it, Bejana? Slivovich! What's worse than Georgievich? In total, after you, we had thirteen children... Yes, one more news, Bezhana, I know it will make you happy. Khatia's father took her to Batumi. She will have surgery and she will see! After? Then... You know, Bezhana, how much I love Khatia? So I'll marry her! Certainly! I'll celebrate a wedding, a big wedding! And we will have children!.. What? What if she doesn’t see the light? Yes, my aunt also asks me about this... I’m getting married anyway, Bezhana! She can’t live without me... And I can’t live without Khatia... Didn’t you love some Minadora? So I love my Khatia... And my aunt loves... him... Of course she loves, otherwise she wouldn’t ask the postman every day if there is a letter for her... She’s waiting for him! You know who... But you also know that he will not return to her... And I’m waiting for my Khatia. It makes no difference to me whether she returns as sighted or blind. What if she doesn't like me? What do you think, Bejana? True, my aunt says that I have matured, become prettier, that it is difficult to even recognize me, but... who the hell is not joking!.. However, no, it cannot be that Khatia doesn’t like me! She knows what I am like, she sees me, she herself has spoken about this more than once... I graduated from ten classes, Bezhana! I'm thinking of going to college. I’ll become a doctor, and if Khatia doesn’t get help in Batumi now, I’ll cure her myself. Right, Bejana?

View document contents
"Microsoft Word Document"

Marina Tsvetaeva. Sonechka's monologue. "How I love to love...".

Do you ever forget when you love something - you love it? I never. It's like a toothache, only the opposite - the opposite of a toothache. Only there it aches, but here there is no word.
And what wild fools they are. Those who don’t love don’t love themselves, as if the point is to be loved. I’m not saying, of course, but you hit a wall. But you know, there is no wall that I wouldn’t break through.
Do you notice how all of them, even those who kiss, even those who seem to love, are so afraid to say this word? How come they never say it? One explained to me that this is grossly backward, that there is no need for words when there are actions, that is, kisses and so on. And I told him: “No. The deed does not prove anything. But the word is everything!”
This is all I need from a person. “I love you” and nothing more. Even if he doesn’t love you any way he wants, or does whatever he wants, I won’t believe the deeds. Because there was a word. I only fed on this word. That’s why I became so emaciated.
And how stingy, calculating, and cautious they are. I always want to say: “Just tell me. I won’t check.” But they don’t say it because they think it’s about getting married, getting in touch, and not letting go. “If I’m the first to speak, I’ll never be the first to leave.” As if you can’t be the first to leave with me.
I have never been the first to leave in my life. And as long as God allows me in my life, I will not be the first to leave. I just can not. I do everything to make the other one leave. Because it’s easier for me to leave first - it’s easier to cross over my own corpse.
I was never the first to leave within myself. I was never the first to stop loving. Always until the very last opportunity. Until the very last drop. It’s like when you drink as a child and it’s already hot from an empty glass. And you keep pulling and pulling and pulling. And only your own steam...

View document contents
"Microsoft Office Word Document (23)"

Larisa Novikova

Monologue of Pechorin from "Hero of Our Time" by M. Lermontov

Yes, this has been my lot since childhood. Everyone read on my face signs of bad feelings that were not there; but they were anticipated - and they were born. I was modest - I was accused of guile: I became secretive. I felt good and evil deeply; no one caressed me, everyone insulted me: I became vindictive; I was gloomy, - other children were cheerful and talkative; I felt superior to them - they put me lower. I became envious. I was ready to love the whole world, but no one understood me: and I learned to hate. My colorless youth passed in a struggle with myself and the world; Fearing ridicule, I buried my best feelings in the depths of my heart: they died there. I told the truth - they didn’t believe me: I began to deceive; Having learned well the light and springs of society, I became skilled in the science of life and saw how others were happy without art, freely enjoying the benefits that I so tirelessly sought. And then despair was born in my chest - not the despair that is treated with the barrel of a pistol, but cold, powerless despair, covered with courtesy and a good-natured smile. I became a moral cripple: one half of my soul did not exist, it dried up, evaporated, died, I cut it off and threw it away - while the other moved and lived at the service of everyone, and no one noticed this, because no one knew about the existence of the deceased half of it; but now you have awakened in me the memory of her, and I read her epitaph to you.

View document contents
"wish"

You have to really want it and...

To tell the truth, all my life I have often had all sorts of difficult-to-fulfill desires and fantasies in my head.

At one time, for example, I dreamed of inventing a device with the help of which it would be possible to turn off the voice of any person at a distance. According to my calculations, this device (I called it TIKHOFON BYU-1 - a voice switch according to the Barankin system) was supposed to act like this: suppose today in class the teacher tells us about something uninteresting and thereby prevents me, Barankin, from thinking about what something interesting; I click the quiet switch in my pocket, and the teacher’s voice disappears. Those who don’t have such a device continue to listen, and I calmly go about my business in silence.

I really wanted to invent such a device, but for some reason I didn’t get beyond the name.

I also had other strong desires, but none of them, of course, captured me like this, truly, like the desire to turn from a man into a sparrow!..

I sat on a bench, without moving, without being distracted, without thinking about anything extraneous, and thought only about one thing: “How could I quickly turn into a sparrow.”

At first I sat on a bench just like all ordinary people sit, and I didn’t feel anything special. All sorts of unpleasant human thoughts continued to pop into my head: about the deuce, and about arithmetic, and about Mishka Yakovlev, but I tried not to think about all this.

I’m sitting on a bench with my eyes closed, I have goosebumps all over my body, like crazy ones, like kids at a big break, and I sit and think: “I wonder what these goosebumps and these oats mean? Goosebumps - that’s understandable to me, I’m probably the one who spent time on my feet, but what does oats have to do with it?”

I even ate my mother’s oatmeal with milk and jam at home without any pleasure. Why do I want raw oats? I'm still a man, not a horse, right?

I’m sitting, thinking, wondering, but I can’t explain anything to myself, because my eyes are tightly closed, and this makes my head completely dark and unclear.

Then I thought: “Has something like this happened to me...” - and so I decided to examine myself from head to toe...

Holding my breath, I opened my eyes slightly and first looked at my feet. I look - instead of wearing boots, I have bare feet of a sparrow, and with these feet I stand barefoot on a bench, like a real sparrow. I opened my eyes wider, and I saw that instead of hands I had wings. I open my eyes even more, turn my head, and look - a tail sticks out from behind. What does this mean? It turns out that I have turned into a sparrow after all!

I am a sparrow! I'm no longer Barankin! I am the realest, most authentic sparrow! So that’s why I suddenly wanted oats: oats are the favorite food of horses and sparrows! All clear! No, not everything is clear! What does this mean? So my mother was right. This means that if you really want it, you can really achieve anything and achieve anything!

What a discovery!

Such a discovery is perhaps worth tweeting to the entire yard. What about the whole yard - the whole city, even the whole world!

I spread my wings! I popped my chest out! I turned towards Kostya Malinin and froze with my beak agape.

My friend Kostya Malinin continued to sit on the bench, like an ordinary person... Kostya Malinin failed to turn into a sparrow!.. Here's to you!

Victor DRAGUNSKY
Glory to Ivan Kozlovsky

I only have A's on my report card. Only in penmanship is a B. Because of the blots. I really don't know what to do! Blots always jump off my pen. I only dip the very tip of the pen into ink, but the blots still jump off. Just some miracles! Once I wrote a whole page, pure and simple, a real five-star page that was a pleasure to look at. In the morning I showed it to Raisa Ivanovna, and there was a blot right in the middle! Where did she come from? She wasn't there yesterday! Maybe it was leaked from some other page? Don't know...
And so I only have A's. Only a C in singing. This is how it happened. We had a singing lesson. At first we all sang in chorus “There was a birch tree in the field.” It turned out very beautifully, but Boris Sergeevich kept wincing and shouting:
Pull out your vowels, friends, pull out your vowels!..
Then we began to draw out the vowels, but Boris Sergeevich clapped his hands and said:
A real cat concert! Let's deal with each one individually.
This means with each individual separately.
And Boris Sergeevich called Mishka.
Mishka went up to the piano and whispered something to Boris Sergeevich.
Then Boris Sergeevich began to play, and Mishka quietly sang:

Like on thin ice
A little white snow fell...

Well, Mishka squeaked funny! This is how our kitten Murzik squeaks. Is that really how they sing? Almost nothing can be heard. I just couldn't stand it and started laughing.
Then Boris Sergeevich gave Mishka a high five and looked at me.
He said:
Come on, laugher, come out!
I quickly ran to the piano.
Well, what will you perform? Boris Sergeevich asked politely.
I said:
Song of the Civil War "Lead us, Budyonny, boldly into battle."
Boris Sergeevich shook his head and began to play, but I immediately stopped him:
Please play louder! I said.
Boris Sergeevich said:
You won't be heard.
But I said:
Will. And how!
Boris Sergeevich began to play, and I took in more air and started drinking:

High in the clear sky
The scarlet banner flutters...

I really like this song.
I can see the blue, blue sky, it’s hot, the horses are clattering their hooves, they have beautiful purple eyes, and a scarlet banner is flying in the sky.
At this point I even closed my eyes with delight and shouted as loud as I could:

We are racing there on horseback,
Where is the enemy visible?
And in a delightful battle...
I sang well, probably even heard on the other street:

A swift avalanche! We are rushing forward!.. Hurray!..
Reds always win! Retreat, enemies! Give it!!!

I pressed my fists on my stomach, it came out even louder, and I almost burst:

We crashed into Crimea!

Then I stopped because I was all sweaty and my knees were shaking.
And although Boris Sergeevich was playing, he was somehow leaning towards the piano, and his shoulders were also shaking...
I said:
So how?
Monstrous! Boris Sergeevich praised.
Good song, right? I asked.
“Good,” said Boris Sergeevich and covered his eyes with a handkerchief.
It’s just a pity that you played very quietly, Boris Sergeevich, I said, you could have been even louder.
Okay, I’ll take it into account, said Boris Sergeevich. Didn’t you notice that I played one thing, and you sang a little differently!
No, I said, I didn't notice that! Yes, it doesn’t matter. I just needed to play louder.
Well, said Boris Sergeevich, since you didn’t notice anything, we’ll give you a C for now. For diligence.
How about a three? I was even taken aback. How can this be? Three is very little! Mishka sang quietly and then got an A... I said:
Boris Sergeevich, when I rest a little, I’ll be able to get even louder, don’t think so. I didn't have a good breakfast today. Otherwise I can sing so hard that everyone’s ears will be covered. I know one more song. When I sing it at home, all the neighbors come running and ask what happened.
Which one is this? asked Boris Sergeevich.
Compassionate, I said and started:

I loved you...
Love still, perhaps...

But Boris Sergeevich hastily said:
Okay, okay, we'll discuss all this next time.
And then the bell rang.
Mom met me in the locker room. When we were about to leave, Boris Sergeevich approached us.
Well, he said, smiling, perhaps your boy will be Lobachevsky, maybe Mendeleev. He may become Surikov or Koltsov, I would not be surprised if he becomes known to the country, as Comrade Nikolai Mamai or some boxer is known, but I can assure you absolutely firmly of one thing: he will not achieve the fame of Ivan Kozlovsky. Never!
Mom blushed terribly and said:
Well, we'll see about that later!
And when we walked home, I kept thinking:
“Does Kozlovsky really sing louder than me?”

"HE IS ALIVE AND GLOWING..."

One evening I sat in the yard, near the sand, and waited for my mother. She probably stayed late at the institute, or at the store, or maybe stood for a long time at the bus stop. Don't know. Only all the parents in our yard had already arrived, and all the kids went home with them and were probably already drinking tea with bagels and cheese, but my mother was still not there...
And now the lights began to light up in the windows, and the radio started playing music, and dark clouds moved in the sky - they looked like bearded old men...
And I wanted to eat, but my mother was still not there, and I thought that if I knew that my mother was hungry and was waiting for me somewhere at the end of the world, I would immediately run to her, and would not be late and not made her sit on the sand and get bored.
And at that time Mishka came out into the yard. He said:
- Great!
And I said:
- Great!
Mishka sat down with me and picked up the dump truck.
- Wow! - said Mishka. - Where did you get it? Does he pick up sand himself? Not yourself? And he leaves on his own? Yes? What about the pen? What is it for? Can it be rotated? Yes? A? Wow! Will you give it to me at home?
I said:
- No I will not give. Present. Dad gave it to me before he left.
The bear pouted and moved away from me. It became even darker outside.
I looked at the gate so as not to miss when my mother came. But she still didn’t go. Apparently, I met Aunt Rosa, and they stand and talk and don’t even think about me. I lay down on the sand.
Here Mishka says:
- Can you give me a dump truck?
- Get off it, Mishka.
Then Mishka says:
- I can give you one Guatemala and two Barbados for it!
I speak:
- Compared Barbados to a dump truck...
And Mishka:
- Well, do you want me to give you a swimming ring?
I speak:
- It's burst.
And Mishka:
- You will seal it!
I even got angry:
- Where to swim? In the bathroom? On Tuesdays?
And Mishka pouted again. And then he says:
- Well, it was not! Know my kindness! On the!
And he handed me a box of matches. I took it in my hands.
“You open it,” said Mishka, “then you will see!”
I opened the box and at first I didn’t see anything, and then I saw a small light green light, as if somewhere far, far away from me a tiny star was burning, and at the same time I myself was holding it in my hands.
“What is this, Mishka,” I said in a whisper, “what is this?”
“This is a firefly,” said Mishka. - What, good? He's alive, don't think about it.
“Bear,” I said, “take my dump truck, would you like it?” Take it forever, forever! Give me this star, I’ll take it home...
And Mishka grabbed my dump truck and ran home. And I stayed with my firefly, looked at it, looked and couldn’t get enough of it: how green it was, as if in a fairy tale, and how close it was, in the palm of my hand, but shining as if from afar... And I couldn’t breathe evenly , and I heard my heart beating, and there was a slight tingling in my nose, as if I wanted to cry.
And I sat like that for a long time, a very long time. And there was no one around. And I forgot about everyone in this world.
But then my mother came, and I was very happy, and we went home. And when they started drinking tea with bagels and feta cheese, my mother asked:
- Well, how's your dump truck?
And I said:
- I, mom, exchanged it.
Mom said:
- Interesting! And for what?
I answered:
- To the firefly! Here he is, living in a box. Turn out the light!
And mom turned off the light, and the room became dark, and the two of us began to look at the pale green star.
Then mom turned on the light.
“Yes,” she said, “it’s magic!” But still, how did you decide to give such a valuable thing as a dump truck for this worm?
“I’ve been waiting for you for so long,” I said, “and I was so bored, but this firefly, it turned out to be better than any dump truck in the world.”
Mom looked at me intently and asked:
- And why, why exactly is it better?
I said:
- How come you don’t understand?! After all, he is alive! And it glows!..

GREEN LEOPARDS

The teacher wrote the topic of the essay on the board: “Your comrade.”
“Do I have a REAL comrade? thought Andryusha. With whom you can climb mountains, go on reconnaissance missions, and dive to the bottom of the World Ocean. And in general, at least go to the ends of the world!..”
Andryusha thought and thought, then thought and thought again and decided: he has such a friend! And then he wrote in his notebook in capital letters:
MY COMRADE GRANDMOTHER

Her name is Klavdia Stepanovna, or simply Grandma Klava. She was born a long time ago, and when she grew up, she became a railway worker. Grandma Klava took part in various physical education parades. That's why she's so brave and clever
Andryusha read the essay and sighed: he didn’t like it. Is it possible to write so boringly about a grandmother?
“No way,” he thought.
And he began to dream. About real mountains that I have never been to. I wish I could climb to the very top!..

Where eternal glaciers do not melt.
Where is the snow avalanche
falls off a cliff.
Where it's cold even in July
And eagles soar in the sky

The mountain paths there are dangerous.
There is a rockfall in the gorge.
Here the snow leopards appear -
in the snow from head to toe.

They go out onto the road
They have an excellent appetite!
And each of the leopards by the leg
tries to grab you.

A horde of leopards approached.
Belt slips out of fear
But here to the top
Grandma Klava climbed up
as agile as a deer.

The backpack is on her back,
and there are 28 cutlets in it,
piece of African cheese
and even a Chinese bracelet.

And grandma fed the leopards
maybe two minutes
and with a hardworking hand
I stroked them on the head.

Snow leopards have had their fill
and politely say this:
“Thank you, Grandma Klava,
for a delicious and satisfying lunch!..”
And then we brushed our teeth and
went to the den to take a nap.

“That’s it, grandma! - thought Andryusha. “With such a comrade, not only in the mountains, but also in reconnaissance, you’re not the least bit afraid.”
And then it occurred to him:
Night. Street. Flashlight. Pharmacy
No, it's better like this:
Night. Lake. Moon. Dubrava. And in the middle is a ravine. In short, a typical military situation

Intelligence is nothing to sneeze at!
Do you see the ravine turning black?
The enemy is hiding there -
enemy of the Soviet people.

How will he jump out of the ditch?
when he pulls out his gun,
as he asks Grandma Klava:
“How old are you, grandma?”

But Grandma Klava will not flinch -
That's the kind of person she is!
(no, it's better like this:
She's such a person!)
That's why it won't even flinch
removing the duffel bag.

And in that duffel bag, according to the regulations
Allowed: 20 cutlets,
bottle of ghee
and even a tram ticket.

Our enemy will feed
he will sigh not our way:
“Thank you, Grandma Klava!
This is a very nutritious story
treat"
And he will immediately throw his pistol far into the sea.

Andryusha was now dreaming well: he clearly imagined how the gun was slowly sinking to the very bottom of the World Ocean. Wow, how deep!..

Washing half the world with water,
The world ocean is seething.
It's very damp at the bottom
happens at night.

There is water on both the left and the right
so I can't breathe
But dear grandmother Klava
knows how to dive bravely!

And in the deep valley
The sperm whale lies with a mustache.
He thinks a bitter thought
and quietly gnaws on a bone:

“And who is that there with fins?
moves like a sawfish?
Excuse me, yes, it’s yourself
Yes, this is Grandma Kla"

The sperm whale is overjoyed
breath stifled in the goiter -
he can't say the words
but only mumbles: BU-BU-BU

And the grandmother from scuba gear
took out 12 cutlets,
cherry jam jar
and even a bouquet of daisies.

And the sperm whale mumbles: “Save-BU BU-BU-BU-shka, save-BU BU-BU-Shka” and only blows multi-colored bubbles out of happiness.
And those bubbles rise to the surface where the edge of the water is. Or the edge of the air in general, the real edge of the world. And Anryusha rises with them. There is no land, no water, no air in sight. Continuous airless space. It's called space. And the Earth, somewhere far away, flickers with a dim light. And it melts, it melts

Our planet has melted,
and with it our country.
There is no white light visible here,
but Grandma Klava is visible!

She is near the starry outskirts,
flies among interplanetary worlds,
like Yuri Gagarin,
or maybe like German Titov.

In a spacesuit with Grandma Klava
8 cutlets hidden,
pot of chicken broth
and even the Dawn alarm clock.

Astronomers of the Universe are watching
for a tasty and filling lunch
into your big telescopes
and send a grateful greeting:

THANK YOU PTA
GRANDMOTHER KLAUDIA STEPANOVNA PTA
YOUR MATERNAL CARE
IN THE NAME OF THE WORLD PUBLIC
TSK

National glory thunders -
a thundering sound spreads:
“Long live Grandma Klava,
and also grandma’s grandson!”

And even the constellations in the sky
Libra, Scorpio and Sagittarius –
greeting grandmother and grandson
I'll end with this:
END

And on time! Because the bell just rang.
“Oh, it’s a pity,” Andryusha sighed, the lesson is so short.”
He remembered that he had another grandmother. Her name is Elena Gerasimovna, or simply Grandma Lena. She was also born a long time ago. And also
“Okay,” Andryusha decided. I’ll definitely write about it another time.”
And he signed the essay: Andryusha IVANOV, grandson of grandmother Klava (and grandmother Lena too)

Tatiana PETROSYAN
A NOTE

The note looked most harmless.
According to all gentleman's 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? Squinting, he looked around the class. The author of the note was bound to reveal himself. But this time, for some reason, Sidorov’s main enemies did not grin maliciously. (That’s how they usually 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 reason logically,” Sidorov reasoned logically. For example, what do I love? Pears! “Love means I always want to eat”
At that moment, Vorobyova turned to him again and licked her bloodthirsty lips. Sidorov went numb. What caught his eye were her long untrimmed claws, and yes, real claws! For some reason I remembered how in the buffet Vorobyova 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"
Here 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 walks"
Then Sidorov felt stuffy at the thought that Vorobyova could force him to jump for every pie, and then take him for a walk, holding him tightly by the leash and not allowing him 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, it’s not that I like to catch flies and put them in a glass, but I also 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 a firm handwriting wrote the menacing words: “Vorobyova, I love you.”
Let her be scared.

O. KOSHKIN
TIRED OF FIGHTING!

At exactly 13:13 the secret intelligence officer was declassified. He ran through the streets to escape pursuit. Two men in civilian clothes were chasing him, shooting as they went. The scout had already managed to swallow three ciphers and was now hastily chewing on the fourth. “Oh, I wish I had some soda now!” he thought. How tired he is of fighting!
Top-top-top!.. the boots of the pursuers were knocking closer and closer.
And suddenly, oh, happiness! the scout saw a hole in the fence. Without hesitation, he jumped into it and ended up in the zoo.
Boy, come back!” the usherette angrily waved her hands.
No matter how it is! Former intelligence officer Mukhin ran along the path, climbed over one grate, through another and found himself in an elephant enclosure.
I'll hide here with you, okay? he shouted, panting.
“Hide, I don’t mind,” the elephant answered. He stood with his ears moving and listened to the radio about events in Africa. After all, homeland!
Are you at war? he asked when the latest news was over.
Yeah, I ate all the encryption! Mukhin boasted, slapping his stomach.
Child's play, the elephant sighed and sadly stomped on the spot. My great-grandfather fought, yes!
Whoa? Mukhin was surprised. Your great-grandfather was a tank, or what?
A stupid boy! the elephant was offended. My great-grandfather was Hannibal's war elephant.
Who? Mukhin didn’t understand again.
The elephant perked up. He loved to tell the story of his great-grandfather.
Sit down and listen! he said and drank water from an iron barrel. In 246 BC, a son, Hannibal, was born to the Carthaginian commander Hamilcar Barca. His father fought endlessly with the Romans and therefore entrusted the education of his son to a war elephant. This was my dear great-grandfather!
The elephant wiped away his tears with his trunk. The animals in the neighboring enclosures became quiet and also listened.
Oh, it was an elephant mountain! When he fanned himself with his ears on hot days, such a wind rose that the trees cracked. So, great-grandfather loved Hannibal as his own son. Without closing his eyes, he made sure that the child was not kidnapped by Roman spies. Noticing the spy, he grabbed him with his trunk and threw him across the sea back to Rome.
“Hey, the spies are flying! looking into the sky, the inhabitants of Carthage said. It must be war!
And exactly, to the First Punic War! Hamilcar Barca had already fought the Romans in Spain.
Meanwhile, the boy grew up under the care of a war elephant. Oh, how they loved each other! Hannibal recognized the elephant by its steps and fed it with choice raisins. By the way, do you have any raisins? The elephant asked Mukhin.
Nope! he shook his head.
It's a pity. So, when Hannibal became a commander, he decided to start the Second Punic War. "Maybe we should not? my great-grandfather dissuaded him. Maybe we’d better go for a swim?” But Hannibal didn’t want to listen to anything. Then the elephant trumpeted, calling the army, and the Carthaginians set off on a campaign.
Hannibal led his army across the Alps, intending to hit the Romans in the rear. Yes, it was a difficult transition! Mountain eagles carried away soldiers, and hail the size of melons fell from the sky. But the road was blocked by an abyss. Then the great-grandfather stood over her, and the army crossed over him as if across a bridge.
The appearance of Hannibal took the Romans by surprise. Before they had time to deploy the formation, the elephant was already running towards them, sweeping away everything in its path. The infantry moved behind him, the ace of the flanks was cavalry. Victory! The army rejoiced. They picked up the War Elephant and began to rock it.
“Brothers, let’s go swimming!” The elephant suggested again.
But the soldiers did not listen to him: “What else, I want to fight!”
The Romans were not going to make peace either. Consul Gaius Flaminius gathered an army and marched against the Carthaginians. Then Hannibal resorted to a new trick. He mounted the army on an elephant and led it through the swamps, bypassing the enemy. Great-grandfather was up to his neck in water. Soldiers hung from the sides like bunches of grapes. On the way, many got their feet wet, and the commander lost an eye.
And again Hannibal won! Then the Romans gathered for a council and decided to decide, the elephant’s voice trembled, he raised the barrel and, in order to calm down, poured all the water on himself, to kill his great-grandfather! That same night, a spy dressed as Hannibal crept into the Carthaginian camp. He had poisoned raisins in his pocket. Approaching the elephant, he stood on the leeward side and said in the voice of Hannibal: “Eat, father elephant!” Great-grandfather swallowed just one raisin and fell dead
The animals in the neighboring enclosures were crying. Crocodile tears flowed from the crocodile's eyes.
What about Hannibal? asked Mukhin.
For three days and three nights he mourned his elephant. Since then, his luck has changed. His army was defeated. Carthage was destroyed, and he himself died in exile in 183 BC.
The elephant finished the story.
“I thought only horses fought,” Mukhin sighed.
We all fought here! We are all fighting!.. the animals shouted vying with each other: camels, giraffes, and even a hippopotamus that surfaced like a submarine.
And the crocodile is the loudest:
Grab the belly, twirl the tail and carry it! Like a battering ram. And bite the enemy. You'll break all your teeth!..
And they let mice under the armor, the elephant interjected accusingly. This is to tickle knights!
And us, us! The frogs were straining themselves in the terrarium. They will tie you to the front line all night, sit and croak at the scouts!..
Mukhin grabbed his head straight: what is it like, all the animals were forced to fight?..
Here he is! suddenly a voice came from behind. Gotcha! Hands up!
Mukhin turned around. His friends Volkov and Zaitsev stood at the bars, aiming their guns.
Come on, I'm tired of you! Mukhin waved him off. Let's go swimming!
That's right, the crocodile approved. Come to my pool, there’s enough room for everyone! And the water is warm
Mukhin began to unbutton his coat.
“I’ll bring you raisins tomorrow,” he said to the elephant. Good raisins, not poisoned. I'll ask my mom.
And he climbed into the water.

Tatiana PETROSYAN
MOM, BE A MOM!

Yurik did not have a father. And one day he told his mother:
If only my dad had been there, he would have made me a hockey stick.
Mom didn't answer. But the next day the “Young Carpenter” set appeared on her bedside table. Mom sawed something, planed something, glued it, and one day she handed Yuri a wonderful polished hockey stick.
“It’s a good stick,” Yurik sighed. Only my dad would go to football with me. The next day, my mother brought two tickets to the match in Luzhniki.
Well, I’ll go with you, Yurik sighed. You don't even know how to whistle. A week later, at all matches, my mother furiously whistled with two fingers and demanded that the referee be given up. That's when the difficulties with soap began. But Yurik sighed:
If only there was a dad, he would lift me up with his left hand and teach me tricks
The next day, mom bought a barbell and a punching bag. She achieved excellent athletic results. In the mornings she would lift the barbell and Yurika with one left hand, then hit a punching bag, then run to work, and in the evening the semi-finals of the World Cup awaited her. And when there was no football or hockey, my mother would bend over the radio circuit with a soldering iron in her hands until late at night.
Summer came, and Yurik went to the village to visit his grandmother. But mom stayed. At parting, Yurik sighed:
If only there was a dad, he would speak in a deep voice, wear a vest and smoke a pipe
When Yurik returned from his grandmother’s, his mother met him at the station. Only Yurik didn’t even recognize her at first. Mom’s biceps bulged under her vest, and the back of her head was cropped short. With a calloused hand, my mother took the pipe out of her mouth and said in a gentle bass voice:
Well, hello son!
But Yurik just sighed:
Dad would have a beard
At night Yurik woke up. The light was on in my mother's bedroom. He got up, walked to the door and saw his mother with a shaving brush in her hand. Her face was tired. She soaped her cheeks. Then she took the razor and saw Yurik in the mirror.
“I’ll try, son,” my mother said quietly. They say that if you shave every day, your beard will grow.
But Yurik rushed to her and roared, burying himself in his mother’s hard press.
No, no, he sobbed. No need. Become a mother again. You won't grow your dad's beard anyway!.. You'll grow your mom's beard!
Since that night, my mother dropped the barbell. And a month later I came home with some skinny guy. He didn't smoke a pipe. And he didn't have a beard. And his ears were protruding.
He unbuttoned his coat, under which, instead of a vest, he discovered a cat. He unwound the muffler; it was a small boa constrictor. He took off his hat and a white mouse was scurrying around there. He handed Yuri the cake box. There was a chicken sitting in it.
Dad! Yurik beamed. And he dragged dad into the room to show him the barbell.

Alexander DUDOLADOV
BAM AND DONE!

Let everything remain the same, and I will have the Spanish name Pedro.
Bah!..
Everything remains the same. And I am a Spaniard with black eyebrows. A smile is like a photo flash.
Hello Pedro!
Smile.
Salute, Pedro!
Smile in response. I don't understand the language. A guest from a friendly country. I go, gawking at the achievements.
Eh, it’s good to be a foreign guest of Moscow! Much better than Nitkin Em. Just how to do it. You can't do it without a magic wand.
Let me be the magic wand myself! So wooden and thin. And magical!
Bang!
I'm a magic wand! I bring benefit to people. As soon as I wave, all sorts of benefits arise.
What if you become useful?
Bam!
And here I am benefit! Everyone is happy to see me. Everyone is smiling. Old people and youth. No! Bam!
I am the smile of youth!
I'm laughing! Ha ha ha ha!
Nitkin! Where are you? Why are you laughing in class? Nitkin, get up! What is the topic of the essay?
The topic of the essay, Olga Vasilievna, the essay “What do I want to become when I grow up?”
Well, what do you want to become when you grow up?
I want to become I want to become
Snegirev, don’t give Nitkin any advice!
I want to become a scientist.
That's good. Sit down and write: to scientists.
Nitkin sat down and began to write in his notebook: “I want to become a scientist cat so that I can walk around the chain.”
And Olga Vasilievna went to the table and also began to write. Report for the district: “In the third “B” a test was carried out on the topic “Who do I want to become.” Based on the results of the essay, I report the following data: one doctors, eight singers, five cooperators, scientists "
Mmm-uh!
Nitkin! Get up now! And take off this stupid chain!

Ernst Theodor Amadeus Hoffmann. The Nutcracker and the Mouse King

On December 24, the children of Medical Advisor Stahlbaum were not allowed to enter the passage room all day, and they were not allowed into the living room adjacent to it at all. In the bedroom, Fritz and Marie sat huddled together in a corner. It was already completely dark, and they were very scared, because no lamps had been brought into the room, as was supposed to be the case on Christmas Eve. Fritz, in a mysterious whisper, told his sister (she had just turned seven years old) that since the very morning there had been rustling, noise and gentle knocking in the locked rooms. And recently a small dark man with a large box under his arm slipped through the hallway; but Fritz probably knows that this is their godfather, Drosselmeyer. Then Marie clapped her hands for joy and exclaimed:
- Oh, did the godfather make us something this time?
The senior court adviser, Drosselmeyer, was not distinguished by his beauty: he was a small, dry man with a wrinkled face, with a large black patch instead of his right eye and completely bald, which is why he wore a beautiful white wig. Every time the godfather had something entertaining in his pocket for the children: either a little man rolling his eyes and shuffling his feet, or a box from which a bird jumps out, or some other little thing. And for Christmas he always made a beautiful, intricate toy, which he worked hard on. Therefore, his parents carefully removed his gift.
- Oh, my godfather made something for us this time! - Marie exclaimed.
Fritz decided that this year it would certainly be a fortress, and in it pretty little soldiers would march and throw out articles, and then other soldiers would appear and go on an attack, but those soldiers in the fortress would bravely fire cannons at them, and they would rise noise and rumble.
“No, no,” Marie interrupted Fritz, “my godfather told me about the beautiful garden.” There is a big lake, wonderfully beautiful swans with golden ribbons on their necks swim on it and sing beautiful songs. Then a girl will come out of the garden, go to the lake, lure the swans and feed them sweet marzipan...
“Swans don’t eat marzipan,” Fritz interrupted her, not very politely, “and the godfather can’t make a whole garden. And what good are his toys to us?” They are immediately taken away from us. No, I like my father’s and mother’s gifts much better: they stay with us, we manage them ourselves.
And so the children began to guess what their parents would give them. Marie said that Mamzel Trudchen (her big doll) has completely deteriorated: she has become so clumsy, she keeps falling on the floor, so now she has nasty marks all over her face. And then, mom smiled when Marie admired Greta’s umbrella so much. And Fritz insisted that he just lacked a bay horse in his court stables, and not enough cavalry in his troops. Dad knows this well.
So, the children knew very well that their parents had bought them all sorts of wonderful gifts and were now placing them on the table; but at the same time, they had no doubt that the kind baby Christ shone everything with his gentle and gentle eyes and that Christmas gifts, as if touched by his gracious hand, bring more joy than all others.

TREE Zoshchenko
The children were looking forward to a fun holiday. And even through the crack of the door we could see how my mother was decorating the Christmas tree.
Sister Lela was seven years old at that time. She was a lively girl.
She once said:
Minka, mom has gone to the kitchen. Let's go to the room where the tree is and see what's going on there.
The children entered the room. And they see: a very beautiful tree. And there are gifts under the tree. And on the tree there are multi-colored beads, flags, lanterns, golden nuts, lozenges and Crimean apples.
Lelya says:
Let's not look at the gifts. Instead, let's eat one lozenge at a time.
And so she approaches the tree and instantly eats one lozenge hanging on a thread.
Lelya, if you ate a lozenge, then I’ll also eat something now.
And Minka comes up to the tree and bites off a small piece of apple.
Lelya says:
Minka, if you took a bite of the apple, then I’ll now eat another lozenge and, in addition, I’ll take this candy for myself.
And Lelya was such a tall, lanky girl. And she could reach high. She stood on her tiptoes and began to eat the second lozenge with her big mouth.
And Minka was surprisingly short. And he could hardly get anything except one apple that hung low.
If you, Lelishcha, ate the second lozenge, then I will bite off this apple again.
And Minka again took this apple with his hands and again bit it off a little.
Lelya says:
If you took a second bite of the apple, then I will no longer stand on ceremony and will now eat the third lozenge and, in addition, I will take a cracker and a nut as a souvenir.
Minka almost roared. Because she could reach everything, but he couldn’t.
And I, Lelishcha, how will I put a chair by the tree and how will I get myself something besides an apple.
And so he began to pull a chair towards the tree with his thin hands. But the chair fell on Minka. he wanted to lift the chair. But he fell again. And straight for gifts.
Minka, it seems you broke the doll. This is true. You took the porcelain hand from the doll.
Then mother’s steps were heard, and the children ran into another room.
Soon the guests arrived. Many children with their parents.
And then mom lit all the candles on the tree, opened the door and said:
Everyone come in.
And all the children entered the room where the Christmas tree stood.
Now let each child come to me, and I will give each one a toy and a treat.
The children began to approach their mother. And she gave everyone a toy. Then she took an apple, lozenge and candy from the tree and gave it to the child.
And all the children were very happy. Then mom picked up the apple that Minka had bitten off.
Lelya and Minka, come here. Which of you two took a bite of this apple?
This is Minka's work.
Lelka taught me this.
I’ll put Lelya in the corner with her nose, and I wanted to give you a wind-up little train. But now I will give this winding little train to the boy to whom I wanted to give the bitten apple.
And she took the train and gave it to one four-year-old boy. And he immediately began to play with him.
Minkaa got angry with this boy and hit him on the hand with a toy. And he roared so desperately that his own mother took him in her arms and said:
From now on, I will not come to visit you with my boy.
You can leave, and then the train will remain for me.
And that mother was surprised by these words and said:
Your boy will probably be a robber.
And then mom took Minka in her arms and said to that mom:
Don't you dare talk about my boy like that. Better leave with your scrofulous child and never come to us again.
I will do so. It's common for you to sit in nettles.
And then another, third mother, said:
And I will leave too. My girl didn't deserve to
· she was given a doll with a broken arm.
And Lelya shouted:
You can also leave with your scrofulous child. And then the doll with the broken arm will be left to me.
And then Minka, sitting in his mother’s arms, shouted:
In general, you can all leave, and then all the toys will remain for us.
And then all the guests began to leave. Then dad entered the room.
This kind of upbringing is ruining my children. I don't want them to fight, quarrel and kick guests out. It will be difficult for them to live in the world, and they will die alone.
And dad went to the tree and put out all the candles:
Go to bed immediately. And tomorrow I will give all the toys to the guests.
And thirty-five years have passed since then, and this tree is still not forgotten.

Bazhov Malachite box
From Stepan, you see, there are only three little kids left.
Two boys. They are timid, but this one, as they say, is neither like mother nor father. Even when Stepanova was a little girl, people marveled at this girl. Not just the girls and women, but also the men said to Stepan:
- It’s no different that this one, Stepan, fell out of your hands and into someone it just arose! She herself is black and small, and her eyes are green. It’s like she doesn’t look like our girls at all.
Stepan used to joke:
- It’s no surprise that she’s black. My father hid in the ground from an early age. And that the eyes are green is also not surprising. You never know, I stuffed master Turchaninov with malachite. This is the reminder I still have.
So I called this girl Memo. - Come on, my reminder! - And when she happened to buy something, she would always bring something blue or green.
So that little girl grew up in people’s minds. Exactly and in fact, the horsetail fell out of the festive belt - it can be seen far away. And although she was not very fond of strangers, everyone was Tanyushka and Tanyushka. The most envious grandmothers admired it. Well, what a beauty! Everyone's nice. One mother sighed:
- Beauty is beauty, but not ours. Exactly who replaced the girl for me.
According to Stepan, this girl was killing herself. She was all clean, her face lost weight, only her eyes remained. Mother came up with the idea of ​​giving Tanya that malachite box - let him have some fun. Even if she’s small, she’s still a girl—from a young age, it’s flattering for them to make fun of themselves. Tanya started taking these things apart. And it’s a miracle - the one she tries on, she also fits it. Mother didn’t even know why, but this one knows everything. And he also says:
- Mommy, what a good gift my dad gave! The warmth from it, as if you were sitting on a warm bed, and someone was stroking you softly.
Nastasya sewed the patches herself; she remembers how her fingers would become numb, her ears would hurt, and her neck could not get warm. So he thinks: “It’s not without reason. Oh, it’s not without reason!” - Yes, hurry up and put the box back in the chest. Only Tanya has since then asked:
- Mommy, let me play with my dad’s gift!
When Nastasya gets strict, well, a mother’s heart, she will regret it, take out the box, and only punish:
- Don't break anything!
Then, when Tanya grew up, she began to take out the box herself. The mother and the older boys will go to mowing or somewhere else, Tanya will stay behind to do housework. First, of course, he will manage that the mother punished him. Well, wash the cups and spoons, shake off the tablecloth, wave a broom in the hut, give food to the chickens, look at the stove. He’ll get everything done as quickly as possible, and for the sake of the box. By that time, only one of the upper chests remained, and even that one had become light. Tanya slides it onto a stool, takes out the box and sorts through the stones, admires it, and tries it on for herself.

War and Peace
In Mozhaisk there were troops standing and marching everywhere. Cossacks, foot and horse soldiers, wagons, boxes, guns were visible from all sides. Pierre was in a hurry to move forward as quickly as possible, and the further he drove away from Moscow and the deeper he plunged into this sea of ​​​​troops, the more he was overcome by anxiety and a new joyful feeling that he had not yet experienced. It was a feeling similar to the one he experienced in the Slobodsky Palace during the Tsar’s arrival - a feeling of the need to do something and sacrifice something. He now experienced a pleasant feeling of awareness that everything that constitutes people's happiness, the comforts of life, wealth, even life itself, is nonsense, which is pleasant to discard in comparison with something With which, Pierre could not give himself an account, and even her I tried to understand for myself for whom and why he found it especially charming to sacrifice everything. He was not interested in what he wanted to sacrifice for, but the sacrifice itself constituted a new joyful feeling for him.

On the morning of the 25th, Pierre left Mozhaisk. On the way down the huge steep mountain leading out of the city past the cathedral, Pierre got out of the carriage and started walking. Behind him came a regiment of cavalry with singers in front. A train of carts with those wounded in yesterday's case was coming towards us. The carts, on which three or four wounded soldiers lay and sat, were jumping on a steep incline. The wounded, tied with rags, pale, with pursed lips and frowning brows, holding onto the beds, jumped and pushed in the carts. Everyone looked at Pierre's white hat and green tailcoat with almost naive childish curiosity.

One cart with the wounded stopped at the edge of the road near Pierre. One wounded old soldier looked back at him.
- Well, fellow countryman, they’ll put us here, or what? Ali to Moscow?
Pierre was so lost in thought that he did not hear the question. He looked first at the cavalry regiment that had now met the train of wounded, then at the cart where he was standing and on which two wounded were sitting. One was probably wounded in the cheek. His whole head was tied with rags, and one cheek was swollen as big as a child's head. His mouth and nose were on one side. This soldier looked at the cathedral and crossed himself. Another, a young boy, a recruit, fair-haired and white, as if completely without blood in his thin face, looked at Pierre with a kind smile. The cavalrymen walked over the cart itself.
- Oh, the hedgehog’s head is gone, Yes, they are tenacious on the other side - they performed a soldier’s dance song. As if echoing them, but in a different kind of fun, the metallic sounds of ringing were interrupted in the heights. But under the slope, near the cart with the wounded, it was damp, cloudy and sad.
The soldier with a swollen cheek looked angrily at the cavalrymen.
“Today I’ve seen not only soldiers, but also peasants!” The peasants are being driven away too,” said the soldier standing behind the cart with a sad smile, addressing Pierre. - Nowadays they don’t understand. They want to attack all the people, one word - Moscow. They want to do one end. “Despite the vagueness of the soldier’s words, Pierre understood everything he wanted to say and nodded his head approvingly.

“Cavalrymen go to battle and meet the wounded, and do not think for a minute about what awaits them, but walk past and wink at the wounded. And out of all these, twenty thousand are doomed to death!” – thought Pierre, heading further.

Having driven into a small village street, Pierre saw militia men with crosses on their hats and in white shirts, who were working on something on a huge mound. Seeing these men, Pierre remembered the wounded soldiers in Mozhaisk, and he understood what the soldier wanted to express when he said that the whole people wanted to attack.

How dad studied at school

HOW DADDY WENT TO SCHOOL

When dad was little, he was sick a lot. He did not miss a single childhood illness. He suffered from measles, mumps, and whooping cough. After each illness he had complications. And when they passed, little dad quickly fell ill with a new disease.

When he had to go to school, little daddy also lay sick. When he recovered and went to class for the first time, all the children had been studying for a long time. They had all already become acquainted, and the teacher knew them all too. But no one knew little daddy. And everyone looked at him. It was very unpleasant. Moreover, some even stuck out their tongues.

And one boy tripped him up. And little daddy fell. But he didn't cry. He stood up and pushed that boy. He also fell. Then he stood up and pushed little daddy. And little daddy fell again. He didn't cry again. And he pushed the boy again. They would probably push each other like that all day. But then the bell rang. Everyone went to class and sat down in their seats. And little daddy didn’t have his own place. And they sat him next to the girl. The whole class started laughing. And even this girl laughed.

Here little dad really wanted to cry. But suddenly he felt funny, and he laughed himself. Then the teacher laughed too.
She said:
Well done! And I was already afraid that you would cry.
“I was afraid myself,” Dad said.
And everyone laughed again.
Remember, children, the teacher said. When you feel like crying, be sure to try laughing. This is my advice to you for life! Now let's study.

Little dad found out that day that he reads better than anyone in the class. But then he found out that he wrote worse than anyone. When it turned out that he was the best speaker in class, the teacher shook her finger at him.

She was a very good teacher. She was both strict and cheerful. It was very interesting to study with her. And little dad remembered her advice for the rest of his life. After all, it was his first day of school. And then there were many of these days. And there were so many funny and sad, good and bad stories at little dad’s school!

HOW THE POPE TOOK REVENGE OF THE GERMAN LANGUAGE
Alexander Borisovich Raskin (19141971)

When dad was little and in school, he had different grades. In Russian it is “good”. According to arithmetic, “satisfactory.” In terms of penmanship, “unsatisfactory.” In terms of drawing, it’s “bad” with two minuses. And the art teacher promised dad a third minus.

But then one day a new teacher entered the class. She was very pretty. Young, beautiful, cheerful, in some very elegant dress.
My name is Elena Sergeevna, what’s your name? she said and smiled.
And everyone shouted:
Zhenya! Zina! Lisa! Misha! Kolya!
Elena Sergeevna covered her ears, and everyone fell silent. Then she said:
I will teach you German. Do you agree?
Yes! Yes! the whole class shouted.
And so little dad began to learn German. At first he really liked that the chair in German is der stul, the table is der tysh, the book is das buch, the boy is der knabe, the girl is das metchen.

It was like some kind of game, and the whole class was interested in finding out. But when declensions and conjugations began, some knaben and methen got bored. It turned out that I needed to study German seriously. It turned out that this is not a game, but a subject like arithmetic and the Russian language. I had to learn three things at once: write in German, read in German and speak in German. Elena Sergeevna tried very hard to make her lessons interesting. She brought books with funny stories to class, taught the children to sing German songs and joked in German during the lesson. And for those who studied properly, it was really interesting. And those students who did not study and did not prepare lessons did not understand anything. And, of course, they were bored. They looked into the house less and less often and were more and more silent as shit when Elena Sergeevna questioned them. And sometimes, just before the German lesson, a wild cry was heard: “Ich habe spatziren!” Which translated into Russian meant: “I have a walk!” And translated into school language it meant: “I have to play truant!”

Hearing this cry, many students echoed: “Shpaciren! Shpaciren! And poor Elena Sergeevna, coming to class, noticed that all the boys were studying the verb “shpatziren”, and only girls were sitting at their desks. And this, understandably, made her very upset. Little dad also was mainly engaged in shpatziren. He even wrote poems that began like this:
There are no more pleasant words for a child’s ear than familiar words: “We’re running from the German!”

He did not want to offend Elena Sergeevna by this. It was just a lot of fun to run away from class, hide from the principal and teachers, and hide in the school attic from Elena Sergeevna. It was much more interesting than sitting in class without learning a lesson, and when Elena Sergeevna asked: “Haben sie den Federmesser?” (“Do you have a penknife?”) answer after a long thought: “Ikh niht”... (which sounded very stupid in Russian: “I don’t...”). When little daddy answered like that, the whole class laughed at him. Then the whole school laughed. And little dad really didn’t like it when they laughed at him. He liked to laugh at others much more. If he were smarter, he would start studying German, and people would stop laughing at him. But little daddy was very offended. He was offended by the teacher. He was offended by the German language. And he took revenge on the German language. Little dad never took it seriously. Then he did not study French properly at another school. Then he hardly studied English at the institute. And now dad doesn’t know a single foreign language. Who did he take revenge on? Now dad understands that he offended himself. He cannot read many of his favorite books in the language in which they are written. He really wants to go on a tourist trip abroad, but he is ashamed to go there without knowing how to speak any language. Sometimes dad is introduced to different people from other countries. They speak Russian poorly. But they all learn Russian, and they all ask dad:
Sprechen si deutsch? Parle vous France? Do you speak English?
And dad just throws up his hands and shakes his head. What can he answer them? Only: “Their niht.” And he is very ashamed.

HOW DADDY TOLD THE TRUTH

When dad was little, he was very bad at lying. Other children were somehow better at it. But they told little dad right away: “You’re lying!” And they always guessed right.
Little dad was very surprised. He asked: “How do you know?”
And everyone answered him: “It’s written on your nose.”

After hearing this several times, little daddy decided to check his nose. He went to the mirror and said:
I am the strongest, the smartest, the most beautiful! I am a dog! I'm a crocodile! I'm a locomotive!..
Having said all this, little dad looked at his nose in the mirror for a long time and patiently. There was still nothing written on the nose.
Then he decided that he needed to lie even harder. Continuing to look in the mirror, he said quite loudly:
I can swim! I draw very well! I have beautiful handwriting!
But even this blatant lie achieved nothing. No matter how little dad looked in the mirror, nothing was written on his nose. Then he went to his parents and said:
I lied a lot and looked at myself in the mirror, but there was nothing on my nose. Why do you say that it is written there that I am lying?

Little daddy's parents laughed a lot at their stupid child. They said:
No one can see what is written on his nose. And the mirror never shows it. It's like biting your own elbow. Haven't you tried it?
No, said little daddy. But I'll try...

And he tried to bite his elbow. He tried very hard, but nothing worked. And then he decided not to look at his nose in the mirror anymore, not to bite his elbow and not to lie.
Little dad decided to tell everyone only the truth starting Monday. He decided that from that day on, only the pure truth would be written on his nose.

And then this Monday came. As soon as little dad washed his face and sat down to drink tea, he was immediately asked:
Have you washed your ears?
And he immediately told the truth:
No.
Because all boys don't like to wash their ears. There are too many of them, these ears. First I wash one ear, and then the other. And they are still dirty in the evening.
But adults don't understand this. And they shouted:

A shame! Slob! Wash it immediately!
Please... little daddy said quietly.
He went out and returned very quickly.
Did you wash your ears? asked him.
Soaped, he replied.
And then they asked him a completely unnecessary question:
Both or one?

One...
And then he was sent to wash his second ear. Then he was asked:
Did you drink fish oil?
And little daddy answered the truth:
Drank.
A teaspoon or a tablespoon?
Until that day, little dad always answered: “Dining room,” although he drank tea. Anyone who has ever tried fish oil should understand it. And this was the only lie that was not written on the nose. Everyone here believed little daddy. Moreover, he always poured fish oil into a tablespoon first, and then poured it into a teaspoon, and poured the rest back.
Tea room... said little dad. After all, he decided to tell only the truth. And for this he received another teaspoon of fish oil.
They say that there are children who love fish oil. Have you ever seen such children? I've never met them.

Little daddy went to school. And he had a hard time there too. The teacher asked:
Who didn't do their homework today?
Everyone was silent. And only little daddy told the truth:
I did not do.
Why? asked the teacher. Of course, one could say that there was a headache, that there was a fire, and then an earthquake began, and then... In general, one could lie about something, although this usually does not help much.
But little daddy decided not to lie. And he told the honest truth:
I read Jules Verne...
And then the whole class laughed.
Very good, the teacher said, I’ll have to talk to your parents about this writer.
Everyone laughed again, but little daddy felt sad.

And in the evening one aunt came to visit. She asked little daddy:
Do you like chocolate?
I love you very much, said honest little dad.
Do you love me? asked the aunt in a sweet voice.
No, said little daddy, I don’t like it.
Why?
First of all, you have a black wart on your cheek. And then you scream a lot, and all the time it seems to me that you are swearing.
What's too long to tell? Little daddy didn't get any chocolate.
And the little dad’s parents told him this:
Lying, of course, is bad. But you shouldn’t tell only the truth all the time, on every occasion, by the way or inopportunely. After all, it’s not my aunt’s fault that she has a wart. And if she doesn’t know how to speak quietly, then it’s too late for her to learn. And if she came to visit and also brought chocolate, there would be no need to offend her.

And little daddy is completely confused, because sometimes it is very difficult to understand whether it is possible to tell the truth or whether it is better not to.
But still he decided to tell the truth.
And from then on, little dad tried his whole life to never lie to anyone. He always tried to tell only the truth. And often for this he received bitter instead of sweet. And they still tell him that when he lies, it’s written all over his nose. Well then! It's written like that! There's nothing you can do about it!

V. Golyavkin. My good dad

3. On the balcony

I go to the balcony. I see a girl with a bow. She lives in that front door. She can whistle. She will look up and see me. This is what I need. “Hello,” I’ll say, “tra-la-la, three-li-li!” She will say: "Fool!" - or something different. And it will go further. As if nothing had happened. As if I wasn't teasing her. Me too! What a bow to me! It's like I'm waiting for her! I'm waiting for dad. He will bring me gifts. He will tell me about the war. And about different old times. Dad knows so many stories! No one can tell it better. I would listen and listen!

Dad knows about everything in the world. But sometimes he doesn't want to tell. He is then sad and keeps saying: “No, I wrote the wrong music, the wrong music, but it’s you!” - He’s telling me this. “You won’t let me down, I hope?” I don't want to offend dad. He dreams of me becoming a composer. I'm silent. What is music to me? He understands. “It’s sad,” he says. “You can’t even imagine how sad it is!” Why is it sad when I'm not sad at all? After all, dad doesn’t wish me harm. Then why is that? "Who will you be?" - says he. “Commander,” I say. "War again?" - My dad is unhappy. And he fought. He rode a horse and fired a machine gun.

My dad is very kind. My brother and I once told our dad: “Buy us ice cream. But more of it. So that we can eat.” “Here’s a basin for you,” said dad, “run for some ice cream.” Mom said: “They’ll catch a cold!” “It’s summer now,” dad answered, “why would they catch a cold?” - “But the throat, the throat!” - Mom said. Dad said: “Everyone has a sore throat. But everyone eats ice cream.” - “But not in such quantities!” - Mom said. “Let them eat as much as they want. What does quantity have to do with it! They won’t eat more than they can!” That's what dad said. And we took the basin and went for ice cream. And they brought a whole basin. We placed the basin on the table. The sun was shining from the windows. The ice cream began to melt. Dad said: “That’s what summer means!” - He told us to take the spoons and sit down at the table. We all sat down at the table - me, dad, mom, Boba. Boba and I were delighted! Ice cream runs down your face and shirts. We have such a kind dad! He bought so much ice cream! That now we won’t soon want

Dad planted twenty trees on our street. Now they have grown up. A huge tree in front of the balcony. If I reach down, I'll get the branch.

I'm waiting for dad. He will appear now. It's hard for me to look through the branches. They are closing the street. But I bend down and see the whole street.

"Notes of an Outstanding Loser" Arthur Givargizov

TEACHERS CANNOT STAND IT

Everyone knows that teachers can’t stand each other; they only pretend that they love each other, because everyone considers their subject to be the most important. And the Russian language teacher considers her subject to be the most important. That’s why she assigned an essay on the topic “The most, most important subject.” It was enough to write just one sentence: “The most important subject is the Russian language,” even with mistakes, and get an A; and everyone did so, except Seryozha; because Seryozha did not understand what kind of objects we were talking about, he thought that the object was something solid, and wrote about a lighter.
“The most important item,” the teacher read Seryozha’s essay out loud, is a lighter. You can’t light a cigarette without a lighter.” Just think, she stopped, you won’t light a cigarette. I asked a passerby for a light, and that was it.
What if in the desert? Seryozha calmly objected.
In the desert, you can light a cigarette from the sand, the teacher calmly answered. There is hot sand in the desert.
Okay, Seryozha agreed calmly, but in the tundra, at minus 50??
In the tundra, yes, the Russian language teacher agreed.
Then why two? asked Seryozha.
“Because we are not in the tundra,” the Russian language teacher sighed calmly. And not in the tundra, she suddenly shouted, the most important subject is the great and mighty Russian language!!!

RESULTS of the All-Russian competition “Living Classics”
19th century
1. Gogol N.V. "Taras Bulba" (2), "Enchanted Place", "The Inspector General", "The Night Before Christmas" (3), "Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka".
2. Chekhov A.P. “Thick and Thin” (3), “Chameleon”, “Burbot”, “Joy”, “Summer Residents”.
3. Tolstoy L.N. “War and Peace” (excerpts “Petya Rostov”, “Before the Battle”, “The Death of Petya”, monologue by Natasha Rostova (5)), “The Lion and the Dog”
4. Turgenev I.S. Prose poem “Pigeons”, “Sparrow” (2), “Shchi”, “Russian language”.
5. Pushkin A.S. “Peasant Young Lady” (3).
Aksakov S.T. "Early summer".
Glinka F.N. "Partizan Davydov".
Dostoevsky F.M. "Netochka Nezvanova."
Korolenko V. “The Blind Musician.”
Ostrovsky N.A. "Storm".
20th century
1. Green A. "Scarlet Sails" (7)
2. Paustovsky K.G. “Basket with fir cones” (3), “Old cook”, “Tenants of the old house”.
3. Platonov A.P. "Unknown flower" (2), "Flower on the ground"
4. M. Gorky (1), “Tales of Italy”
5. Kuprin A.I. (2)
Alekseevich S. “The Last Witnesses”
Aitmatov Ch.T. "The block"
Bunin I.A. "Lapti"
Zakrutkin V. “Mother of Man”
Rasputin V.G. "French lessons".
Tolstoy A. N. “Nikita’s Childhood”
Sholokhov M.A. "Nakhalenok."
Shmelev I.S. “Summer of the Lord,” excerpt from the chapter “Breaking the Fast”
Troepolsky G.N. "White Bim Black Ear"
Fadeev A. “Young Guard” excerpt “Mom”
Original work (search engines by title do not provide links)
"The Tale of Aimio, the North Wind and the Fairy of the Taka River - Tika"
Children's literature
Alexandrova T. “Traffic Light”
Gaidar A.P. "Far Countries", "Hot Stone".
Georgiev S. “Sasha + Tanya”
Zheleznikov V.K. "Scarecrow"
Nosov N. “Fedina’s task”
Pivovarova I. “Nature Protection Day”
Black Sasha “Diary of Mickey the Pug”
Foreign literature
1. Antoine de Saint-Exupery “The Little Prince” (4).
2. Hugo V. “Les Miserables.”
3. Lindgren A. “Pippi, Longstocking.”
4. Sand J. “What the flowers talk about.”
5. S.-Thompson “Lobo”.
6. Twain M. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer”
7. Wilde O. “Boy Star”.
8. Capek Karel “A Dog’s Life.”

For example, Lev Kassil became famous for his book “Conduit and Schwambrania”, Nikolai Nosov for his novels about Dunno, Vitaly Bianchi for his “Forest Newspaper”, Yuri Sotnik for his story “How I Was Independent”

But Radiy Pogodin does not have such a book. Even his story “Dubravka”, the story “Turn on the Northern Lights”, the story “Chizhi”

After “Scarlet,” Yuri Koval began to write one after another his wonderful stories and novellas: “The Adventures of Vasya Kurolesov,” “The Little Napoleon III,” “Five Kidnapped Monks,” “Wormwood Tales.” The novel "Suer-Vier".

Well, Lizaveta Grigorievna, I saw young Berestov; I've seen enough; We were together all day.
Like this? Tell me, tell me in order.
If you please, let's go, I, Anisya Egorovna, Nenila, Dunka
Okay, I know. Well then?
Let me tell you everything in order. We arrived just before lunch. The room was full of people. There were the Kolbinskys, the Zakharyevskys, the clerk with her daughters, the Khlupinskys
Well! and Berestov?
Wait, sir. So we sat down at the table, the clerk was in first place, I was next to her and my daughters were sulking, but I don’t care about them
Oh Nastya, how boring you are with your eternal details!
How impatient you are! Well, we left the table and we sat for three hours, and the dinner was glorious; blancmange cake blue, red and striped So we left the table and went into the garden to play burners, and the young master appeared here.
Well? Is it true that he is so good-looking?
Surprisingly good, handsome, one might say. Slender, tall, blush all over his cheek
Right? And I thought that his face was pale. What? What did he look like to you? Sad, thoughtful?
What do you? I've never seen such a madman in my entire life. He decided to run with us into the burners.
Run into the burners with you! Impossible!
Very possible! What else did you come up with! He'll catch you and kiss you!
It's your choice, Nastya, you're lying.
It's your choice, I'm not lying. I got rid of him by force. He spent the whole day with us like that.
Why, they say, he’s in love and doesn’t look at anyone?
I don’t know, sir, but he looked at me too much, and at Tanya, the clerk’s daughter, too; and even Pasha Kolbinskaya, it’s a shame to say, he didn’t offend anyone, he’s such a spoiler!
It is amazing! What do you hear about him in the house?
The master, they say, is wonderful: so kind, so cheerful. One thing is not good: he likes to chase girls too much. Yes, for me, this is not a problem: it will settle down over time.
How I would like to see him! Lisa said with a sigh.
What's so clever about that? Tugilovo is not far from us, only three miles: go for a walk in that direction, or ride a horse; you will surely meet him. Every day, early in the morning, he goes hunting with a gun.
No, not good. He might think I'm chasing him. Besides, our fathers are in a quarrel, so I still won’t be able to meet him. Ah, Nastya! Do you know what? I'll dress up as a peasant girl!
And indeed; put on a thick shirt, a sundress, and go boldly to Tugilovo; I guarantee you that Berestov will not miss you.
And I can speak the local language perfectly well. Oh, Nastya, dear Nastya! What a wonderful idea!

Victor Golyavkin
THAT'S WHAT'S INTERESTING!
When Goga started going to first grade, he knew only two letters: O for a circle, and T for a hammer. That's all. I didn't know any other letters. And I couldn’t read. Grandma tried to teach him, but he immediately came up with a trick: “Now, now, grandma, I’ll wash the dishes for you.” And he immediately ran to the kitchen to wash the dishes. And the old grandmother forgot about studying and even bought him gifts for helping him with the housework. And Gogin’s parents were on a long business trip and relied on their grandmother. And of course, they didn’t know that their son still hadn’t learned to read. But Goga often washed the floor and dishes, went to buy bread, and his grandmother praised him in every possible way in letters to his parents. And I read it aloud to him. And Goga, sitting comfortably on the sofa, listened with his eyes closed. “Why should I learn to read,” he reasoned, if my grandmother reads aloud to me.” He didn't even try. And in class he dodged as best he could. The teacher tells him: “Read it here.” He pretended to read, and he himself told from memory what his grandmother read to him. The teacher stopped him. To the laughter of the class, he said: “If you want, I’d better close the window so it doesn’t blow.” Or: “I’m so dizzy that I’m probably going to fall... He pretended so skillfully that one day his teacher sent him to the doctor.” The doctor asked: - How are you? “It’s bad,” said Goga. - What hurts? - All. - Well, go to class then. - Why? - Because nothing hurts you. - How do you know? - How do you know that? - the doctor laughed. And he slightly pushed Goga towards the exit. Goga never pretended to be sick again, but continued to prevaricate. And the efforts of my classmates came to nothing. First, Masha, an excellent student, was assigned to him.
“Let’s study seriously,” Masha told him. - When? - asked Goga. - Yeah right now. “I’ll come now,” Goga said. And he left and did not return. Then Grisha, an excellent student, was assigned to him. They stayed in the classroom. But as soon as Grisha opened the primer, Goga reached under the desk. - Where are you going? - asked Grisha. “Come here,” Goga called. - For what? - And here no one will bother us. - Yah you! - Grisha, of course, was offended and left immediately. No one else was assigned to him.
As time went. He was dodging. Gogin's parents arrived and found that their son could not read a single line. The father grabbed his head, and the mother grabbed the book she had brought for her child. “Now every evening,” she said, “I will read this wonderful book aloud to my son.” Grandma said: “Yes, yes, I also read interesting books aloud to Gogochka every evening.” But the father said: “You really shouldn’t have done that.” Our Gogochka has become so lazy that he cannot read a single line. I ask everyone to leave for the meeting. And dad, along with grandmother and mom, left for a meeting. And Goga was at first worried about the meeting, and then calmed down when his mother began to read to him from a new book. And he even shook his legs with pleasure and almost spat on the carpet. But he didn't know what kind of meeting it was! What was decided there! So, mom read him a page and a half after the meeting. And he, swinging his legs, naively imagined that this would continue to happen. But when mom stopped at the most interesting place, he became worried again. And when she handed him the book, he became even more worried. “Then read for yourself,” his mother told him. He immediately suggested: “Let me wash the dishes for you, mommy.” And he ran to wash the dishes. But even after that, my mother refused to read. He ran to his father. His father sternly told him never to make such requests to him again. He thrust the book to his grandmother, but she yawned and dropped it from her hands. He picked up the book from the floor and gave it to his grandmother again. But she dropped it from her hands again. No, she had never fallen asleep so quickly in her chair before! “Is she really asleep,” thought Goga, “or was she instructed at the meeting to pretend?” Goga tugged at her, shook her, but the grandmother did not even think about waking up. And he really wanted to know what happens next in this book! In despair, he sat down on the floor and began to look at the pictures. But from the pictures it was difficult to understand what was happening there next. He brought the book to class. But his classmates refused to read to him. Not only that: Masha immediately left, and Grisha defiantly reached under the desk. Goga pestered the high school student, but he flicked him on the nose and laughed. What to do next? After all, he will never know what is written next in the book until he reads it.
All that remained was to study. Read for yourself. That's what a home meeting is all about! This is what the public means! He soon read the entire book and many other books, but out of habit he never forgot to go buy bread, wash the floor or wash the dishes. That's what's interesting!

Victor Golyavkin

TWO GIFTS
On his birthday, dad gave Alyosha a pen with a gold feather. The golden words were engraved on the handle: “On Alyosha’s birthday from dad.” The next day Alyosha went to school with his new pen. He was very proud: after all, not everyone in the class has a pen with a gold nib and gold letters! And then the teacher forgot her pen at home and asked the kids to borrow it. And Alyosha was the first to hand her his treasure. And at the same time I thought: “Maria Nikolaevna will definitely notice what a wonderful pen he has, read the inscription and say something like: “Oh, what a beautiful handwriting it’s written!” or: “What a beauty!” Then Alyosha will say: “And you look on a gold pen, Maria Nikolaevna, the real gold one!" But the teacher did not look at the pen and did not say anything like that. She asked Alyosha for the lesson, but he did not learn it. And then Maria Nikolaevna wrote a deuce in the journal with a gold pen and returned the pen. Alyosha, looking at his golden pen in confusion, said: “How does it happen?.. This is how it happens!..” “What are you talking about, Alyosha?” the teacher did not understand. “About the golden feather...” said Alyosha. “Isn’t it possible?” Can you give twos with a golden pen?
“So today you don’t have golden knowledge,” said the teacher. - It turns out that dad gave me a pen so that they could give me two grades with it? - said Alyosha. - That's the number! What kind of gift is this?! The teacher smiled and said: “Dad gave you a pen, but today’s gift you made for yourself.”

FASTER, FASTER! (V. Golyavkin)

Heading 5 Heading 615

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 ebullience, 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 only recently found out that I loved in you what I wanted to have 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 from church, sit down to do some kind of work, more like gold velvet, and the wanderers 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, 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 he can make even more money from his free labors. 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 spiritual 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 has no bread

Not worth your prophetic strings!

Don’t believe that people will fall altogether;

God has not died in the souls 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 midst 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 prose reading competitions

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 wind 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, raised the gun 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 all the German words and only 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 sound. 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 gave the sign 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 the bright light of 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

During that First World War in 1914, I went to the front as a war correspondent dressed as a medical orderly and soon found myself fighting in the west in the Augustow Forest. I wrote down all my impressions in my own short way, but I confess that not for one minute did the feeling of personal uselessness and the impossibility of catching up with my words with the terrible things that were happening around me leave 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, leaves of teloreza, 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 the reflection of a flying dragonfly in the clear water. 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 on 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 by 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 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 still 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 a picture of a book, nor in a botanical garden, anywhere. 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 again came 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 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 the terrible ghosts surrounding 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, 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 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 up, too, the side-eyed one, in a white fur coat,” Winter decided, “then you won’t be noticed in the snow any time 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!

The winter forest lives. 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.

Scenario of a traditional prose competition

"Living Classic"

Goal: To show reader interest in the works of various authors

Development of interest in literature as a subject studied;

Development of students’ creative potential, identification of gifted children;

Development and development of skills between students of different ages.

In the literature classroom, sitting at a desk, two boys argue loudly, proving to each other which work is more interesting. The situation is heating up. At this time, the literature teacher enters the class.

Teacher:- Good afternoon, boys, I accidentally overheard your conversation, can I help you with something?

Boys: - Of course, Tatyana Nikolaevna, judge us, do foreign writers or Russians write more interestingly?

Teacher: - Well, well, I’ll try to help you. Every person must have a favorite work, and more than one. Today I will introduce you to the guys who already have favorite books; they are participating in the “Living Classics” competition for young prose readers. Let's listen to how the guys read excerpts from their favorite books. Maybe your opinion will change.

(Address to the public and jury)

Teacher: - Good afternoon, dear children and respected teachers. We are pleased to welcome you to our literary living room. So we begin our speech, during which you and I will have to resolve the dispute between my students.

Ved: Today 5 young readers from the 6th grade of the Cheryomushkin school will compete. The winner of the competition will be the one who shows his skill, knowledge of the text, and feels the hero of the work.

Teacher: Our participants will be evaluated by a distinguished jury consisting of:

1. Marina Aleksandrovna Malikova, teacher of Russian language and literature – chairman of the jury.

Jury members:

2. Elena Yuganovna Kivistik, teacher of history and social studies.

3. Daria Chernova, 10th grade student

Ved: Performances are judged based on the following parameters:

Selecting the text of the work;
competent speech, knowledge of the text;
artistry of performance;

Teacher: Our competition program opens with the work of the great Russian writer Mikhail Aleksandrovich Sholokhov “The Foal” - this is a story about a beautiful, defenseless animal that is trying to survive in difficult times of war.

Ved.: Mikhail Sholokhov reads “The Foal” Kuliev Danil , 6th grade student. Mikhail Sholokhov "Foal"

The foal neighed less and less, and the short, cutting cry became muffled. AND

This cry was coldly and terribly similar to the cry of a child. Nechepurepko, abandoning the mare, easily swam to the left bank. Trembling, Trofim grabbed the rifle, fired, aiming below the head that had been sucked in by the whirlwind, tore his boots off his feet and, with a dull grunt, stretching out his arms, plopped into the water.

On the right bank, an officer in a canvas shirt barked:

Stop shooting!..

Five minutes later, Trofim was near the foal, with his left hand he grabbed it under his cold belly, choking, hiccupping convulsively, and moved to the left bank... Not a single shot was fired from the right bank.

The sky, the forest, the sand - everything is bright green, ghostly... The last monstrous

effort - and Trofim’s feet scrape the ground. He dragged the slimy body of the foal onto the sand, sobbing, vomiting green water, groping in the sand with his hands...

The voices of the squadrons that had swum across the forest buzzed, and somewhere behind the spit gun shots rattled. The red mare stood next to Trofim, shaking herself and licking the foal. A rainbow stream fell from her drooping tail, sticking into the sand...

Trofim swayed to his feet, walked two steps along the sand and, jumping,

fell on his side. It was as if a hot prick penetrated my chest; falling, I heard a shot.

A single shot at a spypa - from the right bank. On the right bank there is an officer in

wearing a torn canvas shirt, he indifferently moved the bolt of his carbine, throwing out a smoking cartridge case, and on the sand, two steps from the foal, Trofim was writhing, and his hard, blue lips, which had not kissed children for five years, smiled and foamed with blood.

Teacher: Hans Christian Andersen was born in Denmark, into the family of a poor shoemaker. From early childhood we are fascinated by his charming fairy tales.

Ved.: Hans Christian Andersen "Grandmother", read Medvedeva Ira , 6th grade student.

Grandma is so old, her face is all wrinkled, her hair is white, but her eyes are like your stars - so bright, beautiful and affectionate! And what wonderful stories she knows! And the dress she’s wearing is made of thick silk material with large flowers - it’s rustling! Grandma knows a lot, a lot; After all, she has been living in the world for a long time, much longer than mom and dad - really! Grandmother has a psalter - a thick book bound with silver clasps - and she reads it often. Between the sheets of the book lies a flattened, dried rose. She is not at all as beautiful as those roses that stand in grandma’s glass of water, but grandma still smiles most tenderly at this particular rose and looks at it with tears in her eyes. Why does grandma look at the dried rose like that? You know?

Every time the grandmother’s tears fall on a flower, its colors are revived again, it again becomes a lush rose, the whole room is filled with fragrance, the walls melt like fog, and the grandmother is in a green, sun-drenched forest! The grandmother herself is no longer a decrepit old woman, but a young, charming girl with golden curls and rosy round cheeks that rival the roses themselves. Her eyes... Yes, you can recognize her by her sweet, gentle eyes! A handsome, courageous young man sits next to her. He gives the girl a rose and she smiles at him... Well, grandma never smiles like that! Oh no, here he is smiling! He left. Other memories flash by, many images flash by; the young man is no longer there, the rose lies in an old book, and the grandmother herself... sits again on her chair, just as old, and looks at the dried rose.

Teacher: Yuri Koval is a Russian writer. A professional artist who published more than 30 books during his lifetime. His works have been translated into European languages.

Ved: An excerpt from the story “Potato Meaning” reads Novoselov Igor.

Yes, whatever you say, father, I love potatoes. Because potatoes have a lot of meaning.

What's the special meaning there? Potatoes and potatoes.
- Uh... don't talk, father, don't talk. Once you brew half a bucket, life seems to become more fun. That's the meaning... potato.
We sat with Uncle Zui on the river bank by the fire and ate baked potatoes. They just went to the river to watch the fish melt, and they built a fire, dug up some potatoes, and baked them. And Uncle Zuya ended up with salt in his pocket.
- What about without salt? Salt, father, I always carry with me. For example, you come to visit, and the hostess has unsalted soup. Here it would be awkward to say: your soup is unsalted. And here I’ll slowly take the salt out of my pocket and... salt it.
- What else do you carry in your pockets? And it’s true - they stick out for you all the time.
- What else am I wearing? I carry everything that fits in my pockets. Look - shag... salt in a bundle... a string, if you need to tie something up, a good string. Well, a knife, of course! Pocket flashlight! It’s not without reason that it’s said – pocket-sized. You have a flashlight, so put it in your pocket. And these are candies, if I meet any of the guys.
- And what's that? Bread, or what?
- Cracker, father. I’ve been wearing it for a long time, I want to give it to one of the horses, but I forget everything. Let's look now in another pocket. Come on now, show me what's in your pockets? Interesting.
- Yes, I don’t seem to have anything.
- How can that be? Nothing. A knife, I suppose you have a knife?
- I forgot my knife, I left it at home.
- How so? Are you going to the river but left your knife at home? .
“Well, I didn’t know that we were going to the river, but the salt ended up in my pocket.” And without salt, potatoes lose their meaning. Although, perhaps, potatoes make a lot of sense even without salt.
I raked a new crooked potato out of the ashes. He broke her black baked sides. The potatoes turned out to be white under the coal skin and pink. But the center was not baked, it crunched when I took a bite. It was a September, completely ripe potato. It’s not too big, but it’s about the size of a fist.
“Give me some salt,” I said to Uncle Zuyu. - The meaning needs to be salted.
Uncle Zui stuck his fingers into the chintz knot and sprinkled salt on the potato.
“The point is,” he said, “you can add some salt.” And it adds salt to the meaning.
Far away, on the other side of the river, figures were moving in the field - a village across the river was digging potatoes. Here and there, closer to the shore, potato smoke rose above the alder forest.
And from our shore voices were heard in the field, smoke rose. The whole world

I was digging potatoes that day.

Teacher : Lyubov Voronkova - her books that have become classics of children's literature speak about the main thing: love for the Motherland, respect for work, human kindness and responsiveness.

Ved: An excerpt from her story “Girl from the City” reads Dolgosheeva Marina.

Valentine came up with an idea: here on a round leaf of a water lily sits a tiny girl - Thumbelina. But it’s not Thumbelina, it’s Valentine herself sitting on a piece of paper and talking to the fish...
Or - this is a hut. Valentine comes to the door. Who lives in this hut? She opens the low door, enters... and there a beautiful fairy sits and spins golden yarn. The fairy stands up to meet Valentine: “Hello, girl! And I’ve been waiting for you for a long time!”
But this game ended immediately as soon as one of the guys came home. Then she silently put away her pictures.
One day before evening, Valentinka couldn’t stand it and went to the plates.
- Oh, it has risen! - she exclaimed. - It has risen! Leaves!.. Romanok, look!
Romanok approached the plates:
- It’s true!
But it seemed to Valentinka that Romanok was little surprised and little happy. Where is Taiska? She's gone. One Pear sits in the upper room.
- Pear, come here and look!
But Grusha was knitting a stocking and just at that time she was counting the stitches. She waved it off angrily:
- Just think, there is something to see there! What a curiosity!
Valentinka was surprised: how is it that no one is happy? I need to tell my grandfather, because he sowed this!
And, forgetting her usual fear, she ran to her grandfather.
Grandfather cut a ditch in the yard so that spring water would not spill across the yard.
- Grandpa, let's go! Look what you have in your plates: leaves and grass!
Grandfather raised his shaggy eyebrows, looked at her, and Valentine saw his eyes for the first time. They were light, blue and cheerful. And the grandfather turned out to be not at all angry, and not at all scary!
- Why are you happy? - he asked.
“I don’t know,” Valentinka answered. – So simple, very interesting!
Grandfather put the crowbar aside:
- Well, let's go have a look.
Grandfather counted the seedlings. The peas were good. The oats also sprouted well. But the wheat turned out to be rare: the seeds are not good, you need to get fresh ones.
And it was as if they gave Valentine a gift. And the grandfather became not scary. And the green on the windows grew thicker and brighter every day.
How joyful it is when there is still snow outside, but the window is sunny and green! It’s as if a piece of spring has bloomed here!

Teacher: Lyubov Voronkova reached for the pen to express her love for the land and working people in poetry and prose.
As an adult, she returned to Moscow and became a journalist. She traveled a lot around the country and wrote about life in the countryside: this topic was close to her.

Ved: “Girl from the city” will continue to read to us Vera Nepomniachtchi

Everything surprised Valentinka, everything lured her: the lemon butterfly that flew to the lungwort, and the red cones that slightly sprouted at the ends of the spruce paws, and the forest stream in the ravine, and the birds flying from peak to peak...

Grandfather chose a tree for the shaft and began to chop it. Romanok and Taiska called back loudly; they were already heading back. Valentine remembered the mushrooms. So, she will never find one? Valentinka wanted to run towards Taiska. Not far from the edge of the ravine, she saw something blue. She came closer. Among the light greenery, bright flowers bloomed profusely, blue as the spring sky and as pure as it. They seemed to glow and shine in the darkness of the forest. Valentine stood over them, full of admiration.
- Snowdrops!
Real, alive! And they can be torn. After all, no one planted or sowed them. You can pick as much as you want, even a whole armful, a whole sheaf, even collect every single one and take it home!
But... Valentine will tear off all the blue, and the clearing will become empty, crumpled and dark. No, let them bloom! They are much more beautiful here in the forest. She will take just a little, a small bouquet from here. It will be completely unnoticeable!
When they returned from the forest, the mother was already at home. She had just washed her face, the towel was still hanging on her hand.
- Mommy! – Taiska screamed from a distance. - Mommy, look at the morels we picked!
- Mom, let's have lunch! – echoed Romanok.
And Valentine came up and handed her a handful of fresh blue flowers, still shiny, still smelling of the forest:
- I brought this to you... mom!

Teacher: Our competition performance has come to an end. Well, how did you guys like it?

Boys: Of course, Tatyana Nikolaevna. We now understand that it’s not interesting to read books just like that. You need to broaden your horizons and read different authors.

Ved: We want the high jury to appreciate our efforts, and we ask them to sum up the results.

Teacher: In the meantime, the jury is summing up the results... We invite you to play a literary quiz.

Questions from the works:
1. The bird that Thumbelina saved? (Martin)
2. The little dancer from the fairy tale “Three Fat Men”? (Suok)
3. Who wrote the poem “Uncle Styopa”? (Mikhalkov)
4. On what street did the absent-minded man live? (Baseina)
5. Gena's crocodile friend? (Cheburashka)
6. What did Munchausen fly to the moon on? (On a cannonball)
7. Who speaks all languages? (Echo)
8. Who is the author of the fairy tale “Ryaba Hen”? (People)
9. Which of the heroes of a children's fairy tale considered himself the best ghost expert in the world? (Carlson)
10. Hero of Russian folk puppet shows? (Parsley)
11. Russian folk tale about a hostel? (Teremok)
12. Nickname of the calf from the cartoon “Vacation in Prostokvashino”? (Gavryusha)
13. What would you ask from Pinocchio? (Golden Key)
14. Who is the author of the lines “A golden cloud spent the night on the chest of a giant cliff”? (M.Yu. Lermontov)

15. What was the name of the main character of the story “Scarlet Sails” (Assol)

16. How many labors did Hercules perform (12)

Ved: To sum up the results and present diplomas to the winners of the school competition for young prose readers “Living Classics”, the floor is given to the chairman of the competition jury, Marina Aleksandrovna. (graduations)

Teacher: Our competition is over, but our favorite writers and their works will never end! We say to you: - Thank you, until new meetings and achievable victories!